Il Traviato
by kedgeree
Summary: A down-on-his-luck ex-soldier meets a wealthy businessman in need of a short-term companion. A simple transaction gives them both what they need. This is a Pretty Woman AU/fusion. Romance and crack and angst. Prostitution. Slash. Case fic. Johnlock.
1. Chapter 1

**IL TRAVIATO**

**Chapter One**

* * *

"I'm so pleased to be doing business with you, Mr Spencer," Sherlock purred, raising his glass in toast to his companion, "and to finally put a face to the voice. I do hope you're as good as you claim to be."

The expensively-groomed, fair-haired man leaning against one of the cocktail lounge's carved interior columns favoured him with a smug grin. He smoothed his red silk tie, an unnecessary gesture designed to draw Sherlock's attention down his body. A Savile Row wool suit enhanced the lines of his well-muscled physique. If nothing else, Sherlock admired the cut of the suit.

"Call me Philip, please. We are going to be…in bed together, after all, Mr March." His hazel eyes sparkled behind gold wire-rimmed glasses. "And I am…_that_ good."

Sherlock lowered his gaze and chuckled appreciatively at the innuendo. _Flattered, but not subservient. _He supplied the expected next line, letting his gaze drift upward again to linger on Spencer's handsome—almost pretty—features. "Then you must call me Gabriel."

Philip Spencer showed no signs of authentic sexual attraction to Sherlock, but it was one of the strategies for control he had been testing over the course of their acquaintance. He trotted out the none-too-subtle flirtation whenever Sherlock tried to gain the upper hand in their interactions. In response, Sherlock gave the appropriate signals—energy in his hands, frequent blinking, a forced edge to his laughter—to suggest he was thrown properly off balance and much more invested in the acquisition of the offered information than he was trying to let on. Spencer's previous clients may have been men and women accustomed to getting what they wanted, but in the end they had been easily manipulated by a man who knew how to fuel their desires.

Spencer knocked back the remainder of his drink. "Like the angel," he breathed with a little laugh.

Sherlock's stomach turned as he caught the exhaled scent of expensive Scotch, but he hid his reaction and cooled the back of his suddenly tight throat with a swallow of his own heavily-iced vodka tonic.

"Another?" Spencer nodded at Sherlock's still mostly full glass.

"Please," Sherlock smiled his gratitude, letting his host play the attentive provider.

As Spencer moved away with glasses in hand, Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose in an effort to forestall the headache forming behind his eyes. The lounge was a favourite meeting spot for City boys crowing over their day's triumphs, drowning their sorrows in the most conveniently accessible beverage or young woman, or plotting the vanquish of their corporate foes. Sometimes all three simultaneously. Although the ambience was one of soft, low-key elegance, to Sherlock's senses it was proving insufficient to its task tonight; there were too many people in the room, too much noise, too many smells, too much movement. The perfumes were too loud, the laughter was off-key, even the clink of ice against glass was too sharp.

He was well past ready to return to his hotel suite and strip off the accursed, smothering tie and self-entitled leer he wore as Gabriel March. But the costume was part of the game. It wasn't supposed to feel good. It was just supposed to work. Philip Spencer would arrange for Gabriel March to be provided the details of Morse Industries' rumoured breakthrough in the production of a new aramid synthetic fibre. Gabriel March would pay handsomely for the information. Philip Spencer would try to kill Gabriel March.

So far, everything was going according to plan. Sort of.

"Here we are!" Spencer was at his elbow again, pressing a freshly-iced vodka tonic into his hand.

"Thank you, Philip."

"All good things from my hand." Spencer winked and leaned in to speak more quietly into Sherlock's ear. "I'll put your gesture of good faith," he patted the thick envelope he had placed in the inner pocket of his suit jacket, "to use right away, Gabriel. Drink up and relax. Things will move forward quickly from here. You'll be a happy man very soon."

Sherlock smirked and lifted his glass once again and clinked it against Spencer's. "I'm looking forward to it," he countered and let something he knew Spencer would appreciate, something predatory, filter into his expression.

Spencer's eyes lit with a dark, anticipatory glint. "Oh, so am I, angel. This is my favourite part."

That, Sherlock believed, was utter truth. Spencer clearly loved the hunt.

"I'll be in touch very soon." Spencer gave Sherlock's shoulder a last, lingering squeeze before he slid easily away into the flow of the lounge crowd.

Sherlock's sly smile slid from his face as soon as Spencer's back was turned. The next step was to follow him. He doubted Spencer would go running straight back to this employer for a cuppa and a giggle over the evening's work, but, well…sometimes one got lucky. He needed more information on the man. Should have gathered it already.

_Damn it._

He was off his game. He leaned against the carved column Spencer had abandoned and pinched the bridge of his nose again. He should be able to _push through_ this fatigue that had begun to plague him. There was no excuse for giving in to it. If he had not been sleeping or eating for the past couple months…well, he should be used to that. _Nothing_ should be affecting his usual ability to manage his mental and physical condition.

With a sigh of disappointment in his body's expression of weakness, he set his drink on the nearest table and made his way toward the loo. He could see the shiny blond of Spencer's hair as he made his way toward the exit. A splash of cool water on his face and he would be ready to go.

He was fine. He would manage this and he was _fine_.

When he opened the door to the toilets there was no avoiding the young man slouched on the red Chesterfield immediately within. His suit jacket was crumpled on the floor. He held a needle in his right hand, the tip poised over a bulging vein on the inside of his left elbow, just under his rolled-up shirt sleeve. Sherlock froze, riveted by the silvery glint of the needle.

All the previously distracting sounds faded, overwhelmed by the pounding of his pulse in his ears.

_Need. I need it._

"What the fuck are you looking at?" snapped the man on the sofa, his red-rimmed eyes flashing.

Sherlock made a choking noise in the back of his throat.

_No. The work. You promised._

Suddenly it was all too much and memories he did not want but had not yet managed to delete stole their chance to rush into his mind. The sickeningly bright fluorescent light and antiseptic smell of hospital corridors. The taste of copper in his mouth. Careless laughter from the room next door.

Sherlock reeled out of the men's room as a wave of nausea threatened to overwhelm him and pushed his way blindly through the lounge. He felt beads of cold sweat breaking out on his forehead and upper lip as he bolted out the door. He bent over on the pavement, hands braced against his upper thighs, taking in gulps of the cool night air.

"All right, then, sir?" the valet asked with almost aggressive indifference.

"Just get the car," Sherlock snapped, and paced back and forth, digging his fingers through his hair, rubbing at his scalp, as he waited. When the black Mercedes pulled up to the kerb, Sherlock practically pulled the startled valet out of the seat in his haste to get in and away. He jerked the wheel, floored the accelerator, and sped away into the London night.

* * *

John Watson limped up the stairs to his second-storey flat, thumping his cane much harder than necessary on each step, his lips pressed into a grim line. He unlocked the door, slammed it shut behind him, and addressed the blanket-wrapped, snoring form on the sofa.

"What the hell is this?"

The lump snorted and stirred at his shout, and his sister's head emerged from beneath the blanket. "Whzat? John?"

John checked his watch. Just past nine. He'd left the flat around half three. She'd apparently come in since then to sleep off the effects of another binge. The flat smelled like rubbing alcohol, so it was probably vodka again. At least he didn't smell vomit this time. Or piss. "This." He crumpled a small slip of white paper and threw it at her. "Harry. What. Is. This?"

Harry wriggled herself into a partially upright position and pulled her arm from underneath the blanket to pick up the paper wad. She smoothed it out and squinted at it blearily. Her cropped blonde hair was standing out in all directions and she had a dark smear of mascara down one cheek. Her face was blotchy and her eyes were red-rimmed. "S'a bank slip," she muttered. "So?"

"And what does it say?"

Harry blinked at it several more times, grunted, and re-crumpled the paper. She rolled back over so her face was turned into the back of the sofa, away from John. "It says _fuck off_, I need to sleep."

"It _says_ my bank account is empty. That's what it says. Harry, _again_? The rent is already late."

"John…I had to party," she groaned, pulling the blankets back over her head. "Weren't hardly nothing in there anyway."

"Shit, Harry, just…shit." John rubbed his hand over his forehead. "I'm really trying here, you know."

There was a pause so long that John thought Harry had gone back to sleep before the lump mumbled, "Sorry," in a small, shaky voice.

Somewhere under that blanket, under the layers of stink and anger and defensiveness and shame, was his sister. His real sister. And he couldn't help her. _Some healer_. He just wasn't trying hard enough, was he?

John squeezed his left hand into a fist to stop it from twitching. "You're alright?"

The lump sniffled. "Just need to sleep."

With a sigh, just in case, John fetched the bucket from the bathroom cupboard and put it next to the sofa. He carried a mug of cold tea and an empty crisps bag from the sofa table to the kitchen. Kneading distractedly at the pain in his right thigh, he explored the contents of the fridge. He thought that blue cheese had been cheddar when he bought it. He wasn't certain that raisins were sold in bunches. He _was_ fairly certain milk was not supposed to ooze when poured.

John checked his pockets. Almost four pounds. Milk and a couple tins of beans? "Harry, I'm going back out."

The sofa snored.

He would have to try harder. That was all.

If they could hold on until his next paycheque came in, pay the rent, and eat they'd be doing well. If not, then his drab little flat might not be _his_ drab little flat for much longer. And it would be a hell of a lot easier if Harry didn't keep "borrowing" his card. He'd have to change the PIN again tomorrow. And find a way to bring in a more cash. His army pension and the work he'd found proofreading medical journals did not quite make ends meet in London's economy, especially now that he had Harry, divorced, drunk, and homeless, to support. He would try again at another clinic.

There. It was all sorted now. They'd be fine.

John hobbled down the stairs and back out into the night, leaning heavily on his cane. He pulled the zip on his jacket all the way up and took a deep breath of the chilly autumn air. Their street was fairly quiet at night, even though it was not too far from the shops and there was a pub on the corner. In fact, he'd stop in there on the way to Tesco…they might still have some peanuts out.

He was just crossing the street when a dark sedan careened around the corner with a screech of tyres, side-swiped a lamppost, and skidded to a halt with one tyre on the kerb. A group of girls dressed for clubbing jeered as they swerved around the car's bonnet.

"Jesus," muttered John, immediately changing direction to check on the driver and any passengers.

A tall, angular man in a business suit flung himself out of the driver's side onto the pavement, cursing at full volume. He was clutching his right wrist with his left hand, but whatever injury he had sustained apparently was not severe enough to inhibit his temper or his theatrics.

"Are you alright?" John called.

"What?" The man glared at him. After a final stomp of his foot, like a frustrated child denied his way, he answered through clenched teeth. "Fine. Yes, I'm fine."

John jogged across the street to him. He was sharp-featured and striking. His eyes were pale and almost eerie in their intensity under the unnatural yellow light of the street lamp. Quite slim. His dark hair looked like it had started the day styled and slicked back, but had since been dishevelled into a wilder, more natural state. "Anybody in there with you?"

"I'm alone, so, no."

"Let me see that wrist."

The man stared at him with obvious suspicion.

"I'm a doctor."

"Are you?" the man drawled, his eyes narrowing. Slowly he extended his arm for inspection, watching John curiously.

John gently tested the wrist, rotated it until the man winced at the pain. It was already starting to swell, warm, and a little red. John also took the opportunity of their proximity to surreptitiously smell the man's breath for the scent of alcohol and check his eyes. Apart from a slightly elevated pulse, understandable under the circumstances, he didn't appear impaired. Agitated, perhaps, but probably sober. That was a pleasant surprise.

"Sprained," John told him, "probably. You might want to have it X-rayed at hospital to make sure it's not broken." John gave him a smile and a light squeeze to his upper arm, just above the elbow—the little reassuring touches that he automatically incorporated into his interaction with his patients. "But it's not."

The man nodded, sliding his wrist from John's fingers. His expression as well as the tension in his body had both relaxed a bit. When not clenched in a snarl, his face was really…quite handsome. Arrestingly handsome. His cool gaze ranged over John's face. "Thank you."

John cleared his throat. "Is there, um, someone who can collect you?"

The man frowned at the car. "What for? It looks driveable."

John looked at the car, too. "Yeah…but…I don't think _you_ should drive it."

John was favoured with a scowl and an offended look. "Why not? I'm perfectly fine."

"You aren't. You need to rest that wrist. And, frankly, you look a bit…wired."

The man's full lips compressed into a thin line of annoyance. He raised his right hand to his head, winced, and lowered it with a sigh. He glared at John again, as if his current situation was now John's fault. "Fine," he grated. "I'll get a cab." He peered down the street as though a taxi would materialize for him on demand.

John snickered. "This isn't your neighbourhood, is it?"

The man looked down his nose at John. "I know my way around London. You'd be surprised how well."

"Yes, I'm impressed already. So what are you doing _here_?"

The man gave John the look of someone who was not often mocked and wasn't quite certain he was hearing correctly. "Just…driving."

"I see." John nodded and pursed his lips, looking at the scraped and dented car wing and door. "You know your way around a car as well as you do around London, then?" John thought for a moment he might have pushed too far, but instead of the verbal abuse John was expecting the man's haughty glare dissolved into a surprised chuckle-a warm, rumbling sound that John could have sworn he felt in his own solar plexus.

John found himself grinning in response.

"The closest tube station is Brixton," the man sighed. He tried again to run a hand through his hair, remembering just in time to use his left instead of his right. "I'll just go there."

"If you like…I could drive you," John heard himself offer. He squeezed the handle of his cane.

The suspicious look returned immediately. "Why would you do that?"

_I've no idea. _John swallowed, taking in the man's thousand-pound suit, hundred-thousand-pound car. He lifted his chin. "If you could just…give me the cab fare back." That would work. Then he could walk or take the tube and get something for dinner for himself and Harry, too.

The man's gaze swept John once again like some kind of human security scanner, assessing John's threat level. John held his stance and his face steady. He did not look away, even though he was feeling suddenly remarkably transparent and more than a little ashamed at having to ask for what amounted to a handout.

"Alright."

"Alright?" John's eyebrows lifted. Apparently his threat level was minimal. "Good, then. Good."

The man stood looking at him.

"Well…if you're…all done here…shall we?" John nodded toward the car.

The man sniffed, opened the door, and slid gracefully into the passenger seat of the car. John climbed in the driver's side, stowing his cane in the seat well and adjusting the seat position to accommodate his shorter legs. "So…where are we going?"

"The Rivers."

John's eyebrows lifted. "Of course we are." Only one of the best hotels in London. "They'll have ice, I suppose," he mused as he familiarized himself with the dash of the Mercedes.

"Ice?"

"For your wrist. We can stop at the chemist's for a bandage."

The man flicked a bemused look at John.

"I'm John, by the way. John Watson."

The man's eyes narrowed. "Gabriel March."

John offered his left hand to shake. Gabriel March stared at it for a moment before he clasped it in greeting. His hand virtually dwarfed John's and the pads of his fingers were just a little rough against John's palm.

When John pulled his hand back, it was tingling. Sometimes the tremor in his hand caused that. Once in a while.

John took a deep breath. "Well, then…let's see if this thing will start."


	2. Chapter 2

**IL TRAVIATO**

**Chapter Two**

* * *

Sherlock crossed the black and white marble-tiled floor to the concierge desk in the lobby of the Rivers Hotel, scanning and mentally cataloguing out of simple habit any changes in the brightly polished space since his last visit. The _thunk_ of the rubber tip of John Watson's cane against the tile sounded rhythmically just behind him. "Messages?" he asked the girl at the desk. She had dyed blonde hair, a vacant expression, lived with her mother, smoked only when she was away from home, and was sleeping with a drummer.

"No, Mr March." She eyed John, who had halted a respectful distance from the desk to wait for Sherlock.

"Please have a bucket of ice and a sandwich tray sent up." Sherlock turned his head and eyed John as well. The doctor was trying to be subtle about gawping at the elaborate lobby chandelier. A plastic chemist's bag dangled from one hand. John had insisted they stop for a wrist bandage as well as a bottle of paracetamol. He'd frowned in concentration selecting his preferred brand, not satisfied the Rivers would have the proper one available. "And the starters platter. And the dessert tray. And tea."

"Yes, sir." She picked up her desk phone to call in his request.

"Come along, John," Sherlock instructed crisply, turning to make his way toward the lifts. John made a small, hesitant sound behind him. Sherlock lengthened his stride. After a moment, the thump of the cane and the rustle of the chemist's bag followed him, and Sherlock smiled to himself.

Inside the lift, Sherlock swiped his key card through the slot and pressed the button for the penthouse level. He felt John's eyes on him, but kept his gaze forward to discourage questions. His wrist was starting to throb, but he didn't have the energy to be annoyed by it right now. He had begun the ride over the Thames and across town to the hotel frustrated with having to text instructions one-handed to have the car picked up from the hotel and repaired. Once that was dealt with, though, the soft light and quiet inside the car had started to soothe him a bit. John had a calm presence and had not bothered him with idle chatter. He'd been able to lean his head back and listen to nothing but the susurration of the road beneath the Mercedes' wheels. His head was not pounding as badly and his nerves felt significantly less frayed, but he still wanted a shower and his usual clothes. And bed, once he had dealt with John Watson. He didn't want to sleep—he didn't need sleep—he just wanted to close his eyes and lose himself in the darkness. _I need it._

A chill ran down his spine and he shuddered.

"You alright?"

John's hand was instantly around his undamaged wrist, no doubt checking his pulse and the temperature of his skin.

"I'm fine."

The lift dinged and the doors slid open. The penthouse level had six suites, and Sherlock led John to the door farthest on the left of the lifts and slid his card in the slot by the door again for access. John hovered in the hallway and tentatively poked his head inside the room, surveying the not-completely-understated luxury of the space inside. The suite was decorated in soothing neutrals in a modified art deco style, with oak hardwood floors and a large, black granite fireplace. "So, you're…"

"What?"

"Rich." His assessment was matter-of-fact, without awe or resentment. "Bit more than a nice car."

Sherlock shrugged. "Family money. I inherited." He had no trouble maintaining a lie, but some perversity had led him to incorporate that little bit of truth into his cover identity. He shrugged out of his suit jacket and draped it over the back of one of the upholstered chairs in the lounge.

"Wow."

Sherlock followed the direction of John's arrested gaze to the panoramic night view of London through the terrace doors. The suite's spacious terrace faced south down the Thames toward the Eye and the Westminster Bridge. London was shining in the clear night, the Eye glowing blue and Big Ben, Westminster Abbey, and Parliament lit in gold. Sherlock walked to the terrace door and slid it open, tilting his head to indicate that John should step outside with him. The air was even cooler up here than on the ground, but it was a crisp, refreshing sort of cool. Invigorating. Maybe he wasn't so tired after all.

"Wow," John repeated reverently as he moved to the edge of the terrace and looked out across the city.

Sherlock joined him at the railing. "Beautiful, isn't it?"

John was quiet. The corners of his mouth tightened. "I love London," he finally replied. "Nowhere else could be home." He glanced at Sherlock self-consciously and shrugged.

"No, I…understand." He'd been away from home. Not just a doctor—an army doctor, Sherlock had realised while John was examining his wrist. Invalided home, apparently, given that limp and a tremor that occasionally shook his left hand. The limp…Sherlock frowned. Something wasn't right, there.

That the man was in financial need would have been obvious even had he not asked for money for his return across town. His jeans, brown brogue shoes, and blue jumper were all clean and neatly-kept but sadly worn. He was living in a low-income area and he was clearly hungry. Tired. Worried eyes. Burdened.

He'd run toward Sherlock's unfortunately-situated car. So the limp was psychosomatic.

Damaged.

Not _working_ as a doctor, or he would not be living on such meagre means.

Interesting. That helped to explain why Sherlock had not found him immediately irritating as he did most people. Why he still did not find him irritating. He had a kind face, which was typically _quite_ irritating. Kind-hearted, perhaps, but also calm, competent, and undemanding. Steady, but not dull. Something Sherlock did not encounter often in his line of work. And ethical, it seemed. In spite of his apparent need, it had not occurred to him to ask for money until he was assured of Sherlock's well-being and even then he had requested a very small sum from a person presenting the overt trappings of affluence.

Sherlock guessed his age at perhaps 37 or 38, but his face was lined with the patterns of both laughter and distress and his blond hair was already greying. His hair smelled nice. His musculature was on the fit side of average. Sherlock suspected he was slimmer at present than he might be had he a more comfortable budget.

His hair_ smelled nice?_

Sherlock scrolled abruptly back to that thought and frowned as he took a step away from John. There was no need to _smell his hair_. He wasn't a crime victim.

He was saved from further self-admonition by a polite knock from the hallway. Sherlock returned to the sitting room as his suite's designated butler entered, rolling in his requested room service order on a cloth-draped trolley. The diminutive, mature woman gave him a warm smile. He almost returned it, almost allowed himself to feel the warmth, before he reminded himself that it was likely the same smile she bestowed on all her guests. He nodded to her politely instead. The grey skirt, black blazer, and white gloves of her uniform were smart and subdued while her short hair was dyed a defiantly cheerful shade of strawberry blonde. Husband was away, and likely had been for some time. Liked playing scratch cards. Planning to retire soon.

"Good evening, Mr March. Would you like these on the dining table?"

Sherlock inspected the three silver-covered platters and pot of tea and pondered whether he should have ordered something stronger than tea. Wine? Beer? Brandy? "Yes, thank you, Mrs Hudson."

"Feeling peckish?" John asked from behind him, as he slid the door to the terrace closed and stepped inside.

"No, I'm not hungry. It's for you." Sherlock gingerly squeezed his wrist as he watched Mrs Hudson begin setting out the serving ware and platters. "You brought the ice?"

She bent down to retrieve a bucket from the lower shelf of her serving cart. "Just here, Mr—oh, dear, have you hurt yourself?"

Her expression was disproportionately dismayed, and as she seemed on the verge of fussing over him, he volunteered, "It's alright, I've a doctor at hand."

Her glance at John was more assessing this time. "Well, sir, I'm relieved to hear it."

"Er. Mrs Hudson, is it? Hello." John bobbed his head awkwardly and still managed a charming smile. He held the chemist's bag out as if the sight of it would reassure her. "Yes, he'll be taken care of."

She eyed the bag and then looked at John's face again and her eyes twinkled. "I'm sure he will, sir." Smiling to herself, she returned her attention to arranging the tea service.

John peered around her at the veritable mountain of food on the table and then looked at Sherlock, registering his recent words. "Wait. That's for _me_?"

"You're hungry. And it's better than pub food."

Sherlock took a moment of pleasure from the look of bewilderment on John's face.

"How…"

"Please," Sherlock casually waved John's surprise away with his uninjured hand. "Your stomach was rumbling practically the entire way here." He adjusted the position of one of the forks on the table. "And you were walking in the direction of the pub when I…encountered you."

John raised his eyebrows at the trays. Approximately thirty options from duck spring rolls in plum sauce to baked brie pastries with apricots to hazelnut tiramisu were laid out for his gustatory indulgence. "I'm not _that_ hungry."

"I didn't know what you'd like," Sherlock shrugged.

John stared at him.

_What?_

Mrs Hudson cleared her throat delicately. "Would you like a fire on tonight, Mr March?"

"Yes, fine," Sherlock waved her toward the fireplace. Admittedly, hospitality was not really his area. He lifted the lid of the teapot to sniff at the tea and looked at John, who was hesitating again, watching him with a strange expression. "Problem?"

"No, it's…" John cleared his throat roughly. He glanced at Mrs Hudson and away again. "It's good. Thank you." He hooked his cane over the back of one of the dining chairs.

"Is there anything else, sir?" Mrs Hudson asked. The fire had begun to glow.

Sherlock shooed her away distractedly.

"Thank you...Mrs Hudson," John called after her as she moved away, and was rewarded with another one of her warm smiles.

They stood without speaking until they heard the suite door close softly behind her.

"Your wrist." John held out the chemist's bag. "I'm meant to be tending to your wrist. Not…having dinner." He cast a forlorn look at the starters tray and pulled the bandages, medical tape, and paracetamol out of the bag. He held out his hands to Sherlock. "It has to be hurting. Let me see."

Sherlock looked down at John's hands and shook his head. He was feeling strangely affected by these gestures—Mrs Hudson's kind little smiles, John's soothing ministrations. Further proof something was _wrong_ with him, some undeniable and worrying frailty to be rooted out and burnt away. _Later_. "It can wait a few more minutes. Eat first."

John hesitated, clearly torn between temptation and his belief it was his duty to insist on Sherlock's immediate first aid. As if on cue, his stomach issued a loud growl.

"It can wait," Sherlock repeated firmly, dropping his wrist so his body obscured it from John's line of sight.

"Yes, I…alright. If you're sure." John licked his lips and reached for a plate. "Aren't you having anything?"

"No." For a few moments he watched John, whose eyes were shining with anticipation now as he examined the desserts platter. "I'll be back in a moment. Make yourself at home," Sherlock instructed, satisfied, and stole away to his bedroom while John's attention was focused on a blackberry pavlova.

* * *

John woke slowly, pulled out of a hazy dream of huddling by the fire in his uncle's cabin on Loch Tay, listening to his family singing horribly off-key Christmas songs. He groaned contentedly and stretched his legs, pulling his blanket up to his chin. He felt relaxed and warm and he could see the firelight still flickering orange against—

"Shit!" John struggled to transition his sprawl across the sofa to a sitting position. His legs were tangled in his blanket. When had he gotten a blanket? He'd still heard the shower running when he finished dinner and he had only closed his eyes for a _minute_ while he waited for March. He checked his watch. It was half two. "_Shit_. Sorry. I'm _so_ sorry."

March was slouched in a burgundy upholstered wing chair opposite John, watching him through half-closed eyes. His long legs were stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankles. He was dressed for bed—a loose dressing gown over a t-shirt and pyjama bottoms. His feet were bare. His dark hair had dried in loose curls. He was holding a flannel wrapped around a plastic bag of ice chips against his neatly bandaged wrist.

"You talk in your sleep."

"What?" John wriggled and tugged his legs free of the blanket at last, trying to work his way back toward dignity. "No, I don't."

March raised one eyebrow. "'Nana, the pudding's on fire again!'" he proclaimed in an accurate impersonation of John's voice.

"Well. Fine. I talk in my sleep." John groaned and rubbed sleep from his eyes. At least it hadn't been a nightmare. God only knew what he might have said then. He looked around. The lamps had been turned off, leaving the fire as the only source of light. The dining table had been cleared. His cane was now leaning against the end of the sofa. "Look. I'm sorry for...this. I'm going right now."

"John," March sighed. "There's no rush. It's fine."

"No," John shook his head. March's laptop was lying closed on the floor next to his chair. John's skin prickled. How long had he been watching him? "You've not gone to bed yet because of me. You don't need to…I don't know…sleep? You should be resting."

"No, I...it doesn't matter." March dropped his eyes with a frown and shrugged. "I don't sleep much."

Something in the tone of his voice struck John as forlorn and familiar. John quieted and really looked at the man. The low light deepened soft, dark smears of fatigue under his eyes. His features were held in a guarded balance of tension and emptiness. John knew that look far too well. He had seen it every day in the army—men and women who were crying out, screaming out underneath their stone-still faces for simple reassurance that someone could still hear them.

He'd seen it on his own face in the mirror.

There was a large, well-padded ottoman between the sofa and March's chair, and John took a seat on it, scooting forward so he was within arm's reach of March. He took the bandaged wrist in his hands and inspected it, setting March's ice pack aside.

"Swelling's gone down. How's the pain?"

March shrugged again.

"You've done a good job."

"It's not my first time," March said with a wry twitch of his lips.

John looked at him searchingly. He hadn't needed his medical assistance, that much was clear. Yet he had brought him to his room. Fed him. Watched him sleep. "So why am I here, exactly?"

March looked down at John's hands on his wrist in puzzlement, as if the question had not occurred to him.

"Was there something else you needed?" Perhaps he knew why he was here. John took a deep breath and held it, and followed his instincts. He let his fingers drift upward on March's arm. The skin was warm underneath his fingertips, soft, the veins pronounced to John's delicate, sensitized touch. He felt March go utterly still, his pulse starting to pound. _Simple reassurance. Comfort. Just comfort._

He blew his breath out slowly, and March's eyes widened.

The room was so quiet John could hear his own heartbeat, the soft slide of his hand under the fabric of March's dressing gown sleeve. He stroked the softer skin of March's inner elbow with the pad of his thumb, his fingers curling lightly around the taut muscle of his forearm.

"It's alright," he whispered. He wasn't sure if he was saying it to March or to himself. _Just comfort. Not alone. Let me. Please._

The silence stretched painfully. March seemed frozen. He looked…alarmed.

"Oh, God." John tore his gaze away and hastily withdrew his hand, mortified. He'd read the situation all wrong. What was he doing? What the _hell_ was he doing? He was just…wrong. "I'm sorry." His voice shook. "I've made a mistake." He leapt to his feet, shoving the ottoman back with his leg, and turned to fumble for his cane.

March lunged forward with a sharp, incoherent sound of protest and grasped at John's arm with his good hand. John took a clumsy step backward as March pushed into in his space, but the hand sliding up to his shoulder and around his neck caught him by the back of the head, steadied him.

Pulled them together.

March's mouth was on his in a hard, sloppy, and overwhelming kiss. Off-balance both mentally and physically, John clutched at the front of March's dressing gown as the kiss grew more fervent and even less controlled. Their teeth ground together, and he grunted an inadvertent little sound of surprise and pain when his lip got pinched in between.

March flinched, glaring down at John's mouth as though it had malfunctioned, and he started to pull away.

"Wait! No, just…wait."

March's eyes flew to his and they stared at one another, two animals each deciding whether it was time for fight or flight.

John touched the tip of his tongue to his lip, checking for the taste of blood.

March watched the small movement warily, with a stillness full of energy.

"Come back," John coaxed, his voice low and rough.

March exhaled sharply. His fingers dropped from John's hair and hooked around the back edge of his shirt collar, twisting it and the wool knit of his jumper tightly into his fist as he bent his head to John's once again.

The next kiss was softer, slower, but more certain. Their heads found the right angles to tilt and the kiss built in waves of exploration and retreat, the rhythm of the tides in the volatile world born between the bodies of two strangers. John melted into March's arms as their tongues curled and slid together in luscious harmony. He dragged his fingertips down March's chest and around his waist beneath his dressing gown. When he slid his hands underneath the hem of his t-shirt to the hot, bare skin underneath, it was March who made a sound like he was in pain.

John drew back, breathing harder now. March looked wild-eyed. His mouth was open and wet. His hand was still fisted in John's jumper like he _needed_ him. His desire flaring, John pressed his hips forward insistently, rubbed himself against the other man's thigh so March could _feel_ his own need. _Let me. _He shifted his gaze deliberately, questioningly toward the door to March's bedroom.

"Yes," whispered Gabriel. He took John by the hand and led him to his bed.


	3. Chapter 3

**IL TRAVIATO**

**Chapter Three**

* * *

John Watson had _seduced_ him.

At the start of it all, Sherlock had felt ashamed. Ashamed of his loss of control at the cocktail lounge. Ashamed of his reckless behaviour. Ashamed of the surge of need he felt for this man. Physical pleasure was transient, a generally useless distraction he could not afford. It had been a long time since he had allowed his body to have such control over him, be it sexually or in any other physical way. And it had been even longer since he had gone so far as to experience an orgasm with another person.

And now there was a man in his bed and Sherlock had most _definitely_ experienced an orgasm with him. For him. _On_ him, technically.

His responsiveness had been-unexpected. But John _said_ things, whispered things to him. Sherlock didn't remember what the words were, but he remembered how they had felt against his skin, hot and urgent. So long since he had been touched this way, like praise, and Sherlock had glowed like an ember for John, so desperate was he in that moment to _be_ that praiseworthy creature. He had poured himself out, completely, messily, surrendered _years_ of self-restraint into John's hand.

Afterward, John had curled himself into Sherlock's chest and fallen asleep almost immediately, in spite of already having slept for several hours on the sofa. Sherlock supposed that was what people did after sex. Wasn't it? He hardly remembered, but he didn't recall any of his former partners snuggling up to him for the night. In his admittedly limited experience, sexual transactions took place on an axis of clinical to roughly sordid that _snuggling_ had no point on. If that sort of tenderness had ever been shown him, he had most likely-must have-completely deleted it from his memory.

This-he would not feel ashamed of this. It was a counterproductive emotion. And after all, it was only one night. An aberration.

John grunted and stirred against him, and Sherlock held his breath until the rough little purrs of his snoring resumed.

He kissed the top of the aberration's head carefully, put his fingertips into the ruffled hair at the nape of his neck, grateful John did not wake to witness his indulgences. John's shampoo had a faint citrus scent. It _did_ smell nice. He liked it. He liked the warmth and small movements of John's body against his chest. He could see the edges of scar tissue on his left shoulder at the neck of the vest John had put back on to sleep in. He remembered the pattern. Shot. Rifle. He touched the edge of one white ridge.

He shifted to move his bandaged wrist further up on his pillow and draped his other arm lightly and protectively over the sleeping man's body.

It was only one night.

* * *

John woke up alone.

Big, bright room. Morning. He blinked and squinted at his unfamiliar surroundings as his memories of the previous night resurfaced. Auto accident. Sprained wrist. Hotel. Room service. Warm fire. Kissing. Frantic fumbling. Hand job. Gabriel's dark curls, smashed into the white pillowcase. His long neck arched as he orgasmed. Loud. Unrestrained. Gorgeous.

Right.

He rolled over, letting the luxuriously satiny sheets slide over his skin. He felt-_fantastic_. An orgasm of his own certainly hadn't been the worst part of the evening. God, he'd looked down at that big hand curled around him and-.

Wow. Yes. Just-wow.

John sighed and relaxed into the rare, precious moment of bliss, stretching his arms and legs out to their full extensions in the middle of the enormous bed.

Where was Gabriel, anyway?

John reached for his watch on the bedside table, peered at it, and grunted resignation. It was a little past time to get up, he supposed. He swung himself out of bed and into the polished, black and white tiled bathroom. After he relieved his bladder, he found a tube of toothpaste atop the basin and rubbed a smear of the minty gel into his teeth. He took an experimental sniff of one of Gabriel's expensive-looking grooming products—the scent reminded him of bright green tree leaves—but put the bottle down and settled for a quick comb of his fingers through his sleep-tousled hair.

His clothes were neatly folded in one of the bedroom chairs, even though he remembered leaving them strewn across the floor bedroom floor last night. Feeling curiously reluctant to disturb them, he instead wrapped himself up in one of the complimentary white robes from the bathroom.

As soon as he opened the bedroom door, John heard Gabriel's voice. He was speaking in an odd, unctuous tone, far different from last night's rough, deep timbre. Peering into the sitting room, John saw March was speaking into his mobile, pacing a lazy, meandering path across the room. John paused in the doorway, leaning against the frame just to watch him. A sharply-cut business suit, a different one from last night's, accentuated his height and lean build. His white shirt was unbuttoned at the neck, and a patterned blue tie was draped around his neck under the collar.

As soon as Gabriel noticed him standing in the doorway, his focus locked onto John. He immediately stopped pacing and turned to face him with a brief, unsmiling nod in acknowledgement of his presence. "If you really think a face-to-face meeting is best-" he said into his phone. He was clean-shaven and his beautiful, thick curls had been subdued once again in a more formal, combed-back style. The conservative style made him look older. Almost like a different person. He even sounded like a different person. It was-a little off-putting.

John frowned, realising Gabriel must have been awake for a while now getting himself prepared for the day. And John had remained soundly asleep, undisturbed as another man—a stranger, despite their intimacies—moved around the bedroom.

Since the army, he slept on the edge of alertness, tense and expectant. Sometimes beyond tense. There was the time he had pinned Harry to the wall by her throat when she stumbled into his bedroom in the night looking for her mobile. That had not been a good night. He looked down at his hands. They looked small and unthreatening now, poking out from the fluffy white sleeves of his robe.

He had felt-safe? Sated, yes, but _safe_ was another matter entirely. _Why_? Gabriel March did not seem like a _safe_ man.

A tremor shook John's left hand.

"Of course," Gabriel said. His silky voice was jarringly at odds with his sombre gaze, which had not left John's face. John wasn't sure he had even blinked. "You're the expert."

John spied his cane leaning on one of the sitting room armchairs and made his way to retrieve it, feeling self-conscious of his uneven gait as Gabriel's eyes tracked his awkward progress across the room.

"Set it up, then," Gabriel instructed with a magnanimous air. "Yes. I'll see you there."

Gabriel ended his call and shoved the phone into his trouser pocket as he walked slowly toward John. He stopped mere inches away, a little too close, chin raised. It was a challenging position and posture. He seemed-wary. His eyes were the light blue-grey of the early morning sky, and just as clear and cool. He watched John, waiting.

John was under no illusions about the nature of one night stands. Perhaps he had already overstayed his welcome. Perhaps the fact that this mussed, shabby stranger was completely out of place in this sleek room with this sleek man was far easier to see—for both them—in the lucid light of morning than it was by last night's warm, forgiving firelight.

He attempted a pleasant smile, even as he felt the renewal of tension in his forehead contradicting the effort. "Hello."

Gabriel's shoulders seemed to relax, his eyes softened slightly. When he spoke to John, his voice was deep and gravelly again. "Good morning."

John cleared his throat. "I-you didn't wake me, but I can see you're busy. I'm going to be out of here in just a minute."

A line formed between Gabriel's brows. "There's no rush."

"Oh."

"I've ordered breakfast," Gabriel added almost defiantly.

"Oh."

There was a knock at the door.

"Come in," Gabriel called with an _I-told-you-so_ widening of his eyes at John, as though John had suspected the purported breakfast to be some idle boast.

The door opened and Mrs Hudson, looking fresh and cheerful, rolled another silver cart into the room.

While Gabriel was evidently unconcerned at having his rather dishevelled overnight guest on display, John was seized with sudden embarrassment as her gaze swept him, standing there bare-legged in his borrowed robe.

"Good morning, gentlemen," she smiled sunnily at them both. With a reassuring lack of interest in John's obvious state of dishabille, she immediately began transferring food to the dining table.

John's mouth watered as the wonderful aromas started to fill the room, and he went to inspect the offerings. Once again, it appeared she was laying out significantly more food than two people could eat at a single meal—croissants, pastries, sausages, tomato, egg, fruits, tea, coffee, juice.

"You're really trying to feed me up, aren't you?" John asked Gabriel lightly.

Gabriel gave an irritated little shrug in response. He moved between John and Mrs Hudson, his arm brushing John's shoulder as he reached to adjust the placement of one of the plates. "I didn't know what you'd like so I—"

"—ordered everything on the menu?" John finished, glancing up with a grin.

Gabriel frowned and moved the teapot several centimetres to the left and John suddenly wanted to kiss him. Instead, he waited patiently while Mrs Hudson set out little dishes of jam, butter, and cream. Gabriel fiddled with the positioning of each in turn. She directed Gabriel's attention to the bottom of the silver cart. "There's some more ice here for your wrist, sir, if you need it."

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson," Gabriel nodded absently, inspecting the lid of the sugar bowl.

"Enjoy your breakfast, sir," she smiled.

As she exited the room, Gabriel gestured John toward the table with an open hand and an imperiously hooked eyebrow.

"Yes. Er, thank you." John pushed the kiss idea to the back of his mind and seated himself at the table as directed. Gabriel took a seat opposite him, watching him quietly as he prepared a cup of tea and spread a liberal quantity of jam on a slice of toast. "You're not having anything?" John asked when it appeared he was just going to sit there and watch John eat.

"I don't eat when I'm working. Slows me down." Gabriel leaned back in his seat, extending his long legs under the table and folding his arms.

John processed this assertion while he crunched a bite of crust. "Okay. So-did you-sleep well? Or-at all?"

"A little. On the sofa. I was working."

"So-you hardly sleep. You don't eat. You apparently work a lot. What is it you do, then?"

A very small smile played at the corner of Gabriel's mouth at the question. "What do you think?"

"I don't know. Lawyer?"

Gabriel's lips definitely twitched this time. "What makes you think I'm a lawyer?"

"You've got that sharp, useless look about you."

Gabriel's brows snapped down.

John snickered. "Well-you do look sharp. I highly doubt 'useless,' though." He swallowed a slightly sticky bite of toast. "How's the wrist this morning? Not-er-the worse for wear after-?"

"It's fine," he sniffed primly.

"Of course. I wonder why I bothered to ask."

"So do I."

John took a sip of tea and glanced at Gabriel's open collar. "You can't tie your tie, can you?"

Gabriel's lips pressed together peevishly, and he yanked the loose tie from his shoulders. "Hateful things," he sneered at the offensive object.

Struggling not to laugh, John checked his hands to make sure they were free of any oil or blobs of jam. He stood and walked around the table to stand next to Gabriel's chair. "Here. I'll do it."

Gabriel rose and grudgingly pressed the strip of blue silk into his offered hand. John had to sort of fling the tie over the top of his head, then settled it back under the collar of his button-up, tugging at the ends to slide it properly into position. He buttoned the top buttons of the shirt, resolutely avoiding brushing his fingers against the pale skin at the exposed hollow of Gabriel's throat. The tip of his tongue poked out between his lips as he concentrated on tying the knot to bespoke suit standards, and he smiled satisfaction as he settled the finished product into place. "There."

"John," Gabriel's adam's apple bobbed as he paused and swallowed. "I have a proposition for you."

"Mm?" John hummed, intrigued, as looked up into Gabriel's cool eyes, head cocked to the side inquisitively.

"A business proposition."

"Business? Doing what, exactly?" He nodded at Gabriel's neatly-bandaged wrist. "It may not be back to full functionality for a few more days, but I don't think you still need a doctor. You didn't need a doctor in the first place."

"Not a doctor. An assistant. I'd like you to spend the week with me. Perhaps a few light errands. Accompany me to one or two social events. And I would ask that you share my bed, as well. You would be generously compensated. Can you type?"

"Of course I can type," John replied automatically, blinking as he tried to parse what he had just heard. "Sorry, did you just say—"

"Yes. You heard me." Gabriel's gaze was uncomfortably direct. He had drawn his chin up again haughtily and blanked his expression. "I would like to hire you as an employee."

"As an employee-to sleep with you."

"To have sex with me."

A chill washed away the warmth of the tea in John's belly and the warmth of the gesture of breakfast-a gesture he realized now he'd been far too easily impressed by. And why was he wearing this stupid fuzzy bathrobe? He felt naked. He had been wondering how to raise the question of his cab fare home without it feeling awkward. He had been wondering whether he could take some of this food back for Harry—such a shame to let it go to waste. The conquering hero, returned home with £20 and a chemist's bag full of muffins, and it would actually have felt like there was some pride in it. "I'm not a-prostitute."

Gabriel frowned. "I didn't suggest that you were."

"You want me to have sex with you for money. How is that not prostitution?"

"I don't want any emotional entanglements."

"We already had sex. Last night, remember? For free. And I was _leaving_. No _entanglement_."

"I don't _want_ you to leave yet." Gabriel's jaw was jutting out stubbornly. "You're a capable man. I need an assistant. You are also open to sexual activity. I desire you sexually. You need money. I have money. It's a mutually beneficial arrangement, don't you see? One you are, of course, free to decline." His nostrils flared as he inhaled deeply through his nose and briefly squeezed his eyes closed. When he re-opened them, he said, quietly, "But I hope that you will consider spending the week with me."

"For sex."

"How many times do I have to say it?"

John snorted disbelief. "Yeah, how much money are we talking about here?" he asked sarcastically.

"How much do you need?"

His mind reached for an impressively prohibitive figure. "£7200," he smirked. The rehab program he wanted to see Harry in started at £3000 for detox. The full therapeutic program was more than double that amount. A lot of money, even for a rich man.

Gabriel didn't bat an eye. "Done."

John sucked in a breath. "What?"

"Why do you do that? I know you hear me."

John licked his lips and nodded firmly. His mind was running in circles now. "So-just so I have it all straight-you want me to spend the week with you."

"As I made clear."

"And service you in bed."

Gabriel frowned. "I said _share_ my bed."

John raised his eyebrows. "What's the difference?"

Gabriel's mouth tightened. "I have no interest in an unwilling partner. Any-any sexual gratification should be-mutual. If those-terms are not acceptable-then-"

"Terms, yes. We should discuss terms. What _kind_ of sexual gratification?"

Gabriel blinked. "What kind?"

"More hand jobs? Rub off on me? You want me to suck you off? Fingering? Rimming? Your cock up my arse? Or the other way around? Do you have toys? Rough, maybe? Do you want to tie me up? Shave me and dress me in stockings? Wait, don't tell me, whips? You seem like a whip man. I have a lot of ideas if you need some suggestions."

Gabriel had gone bright red.

"You're offering me a _lot_ of money. The more specific you are, the better I can ensure you get your proper value for it, yeah? By all means, don't be shy now. What _exactly_ do you want?"

Gabriel bared his teeth and grabbed John's forearm, hard, fingers uncomfortably digging into the muscle.

"Rough, then?" John nodded. "Now we're getting somewhere."

Gabriel pulled John's arm toward his injured wrist, pressed his hand into his inner elbow, and held it there, glaring at him significantly.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" John demanded, squinting back in confusion.

With a pained, exasperated sound, Gabriel moved his hand to the back of John's head. John started to jerk away, but Gabriel's touch was light, his hand resting but not controlling. He closed his eyes and slowly bent his head to John's, pressing their foreheads together. Gabriel inhaled through his nose, a long, deep draw of breath, and dropped his hand, twisting it into the collar of John's robe.

_Oh._ Last night. He was mimicking their actions from last night.

The fight drained out of John. _Just comfort._

He pressed his thumb into the crease of Gabriel's elbow, stroked into one of the folds of fabric of his suit jacket. "Oh." It was all he could think of to say.

Gabriel wrenched his head to the side, and spoke into his own shoulder, avoiding John's eyes. "If the terms are not acceptable-"

"The terms are acceptable," John said.

"Is that a yes?" Gabriel's voice was tight. "We have an agreement?"

Was he really going to do this? It was ridiculous. If he agreed to this, it would be the most ridiculous thing John had ever done. _Dangerous_, even. _Could_ he do this? For money? For Harry?

John sighed away the last of his reservations. It was true: everyone had their price. "We do."

"Good." Gabriel turned away abruptly and stood, fussing with his jacket and tie, smoothing himself into place. When he looked back at John his face was once again expressionless. "Then let's begin. I'll be gone most of the day. I want you to buy some clothes. Conservative. Elegant. A proper suit. You'll need to look the part of my assistant."

"I have a suit," John offered.

"A _proper_ suit, John." He swept a hand down his torso to indicate what a proper suit looked like.

John scowled defensively. "Maybe I already _have_-fine. A proper suit. What else?"

Gabriel collected his coat and briefcase and walked to the door of the suite. John trailed after him. "Your hair will have to do, I suppose."

"What's wrong with my _hair_?"

Gabriel looked at John's hair and reached out as if to touch it. "Nothing," he said softly. He glanced at his hand like he was surprised to see that it had moved, and withdrew it, continuing crisply, "Daywear. A coat. Shoes. Anything you need for the week. I'll have Mrs Hudson leave you appropriate funds."

He opened the door and stepped out into the hallway, where he turned to give John a strange, hesitant look. He seemed to be searching for something to say. "John," he finally offered, "I would have paid more."

John shook his head. "You know, if you'd just asked me, you wouldn't have had to pay anything," he said softly, and closed the door in Gabriel's face.


	4. Chapter 4

**IL TRAVIATO**

**Chapter Four**

* * *

"Here you are, sir," Mrs Hudson handed John a thick, sealed envelope. "Per Mr March's request, your room key and your mobile."

"My mobile?" John carefully opened the envelope and pulled out the phone to examine it. Did Gabriel think he didn't have his own phone? Well…alright, he almost didn't. The service was likely to be discontinued if he didn't pay the bill soon plus the charge had run out during the night.

"I've added Mr March's number to the contacts," Mrs Hudson pointed at the screen as John pressed the button to turn on the phone, "also per his request, and I've texted him this phone's number."

One text message was waiting.

::_ Use only this phone to contact me. GM_

John's eyebrows climbed. How cloak-and-dagger. Would it self-destruct five seconds after he used it? What combination did he press to turn it into a stun gun?

"I don't suppose it was you who chose this background photo?" He turned the picture on the screen of a cup of tea toward her.

"It's the little touches that matter," she nodded firmly.

"I like it." John smiled at her.

The envelope she had given him was still thick. John peered inside to see it held a small stack of cash and a credit card in addition to the key card for the room. Was this what Gabriel considered_ appropriate funds_? He wouldn't go so far as to count it out in front of the butler, but it looked like…a fair sum. And how much money would be available on that card? How was Gabriel to know John wouldn't just take what he had in hand and leave? "Mrs Hudson? Er…there's one more thing I was wondering whether you might help me with."

Mrs Hudson drew her small frame up attentively. "Yes, sir?"

He hesitated, trying to determine the least embarrassing phrasing for his question. "Gabriel…Mr March…wants me to…that is, I need to buy a suit. And some other clothes."

"Yes, sir…?"

"Well…where do I go? For a _proper_ suit."

"Oh, I see! Hm." Mrs Hudson stepped back and swept him from head to toe with an appraising look that reminded him of one of Gabriel's scans.

He'd showered after Gabriel left, but of course had to put his clothes from last night back on. They'd spent some time on the floor, so his shirt was a little rumpled. There had been a dicey moment when he'd thought one of his shoes had gone missing, but he'd found it tucked under one of the sitting room chairs. So, all in all, he was not looking quite his best, but he thought it was a big improvement over the I-just-fell-out-of-bed look he'd presented her with earlier that morning.

"If I may say so, sir, you strike me as a classic sort of gentleman."

John looked down at himself. "Really?"

"Definitely. I think we'll send you to Kilgour for your suit. I'm assuming you'll need it quickly?"

"Well, he didn't say…exactly…what we'd be doing, but I suppose I should have it for tonight. Is that a problem?"

"Not at all. There's no time for bespoke, obviously, but you can have a ready to wear suit tailored by tonight—especially if the request comes from me." She smiled mischievously. "Shall I make an appointment for you?"

"I need an appointment?"

"Oh, yes. And for your casuals, Liberty might suit. We'll make an appointment there, too. It might be a bit overwhelming for you otherwise."

John laughed good-naturedly. "Mrs Hudson, that part I can handle, picking out a few jumpers and trousers and what not. I might not know where to get a _proper_ suit, but I _can_ dress myself. I've done it for years now."

"Yes, sir," she agreed immediately, then looked him up and down once more and raised a meticulously-shaped eyebrow. "We'll just make that appointment for you, I think."

John stared at her for a moment in offense, then subsided. "Fine," he sighed, then looked at her sheepishly. "Thank you, Mrs Hudson, really. I believe you may be a saint."

"No, sir. Just your housekeeper," she smiled and folded her hands at the front of her skirt. "You're going to look very handsome, you know. Not that you aren't already quite handsome, of _course_, sir."

"Now I know you're a saint."

"Just your housekeeper, sir," she repeated firmly, but her eyes were pleased. "Shall I text the appointment details to your phone?"

"Thanks, that would be…great."

"Is there anything else you need?"

"I don't think so, Mrs Hudson." He gathered up his jacket and cane and gave her a little wave. "I'm off. Wish me luck."

She smiled. "I'll text you those details. You have a lovely day, dear."

In the privacy of the hallway, John thumbed through the notes still inside the envelope and his eyes widened in shock. There was £1000 in there. He counted again, to make sure. £1000. Just in cash. Being a kept man definitely had its benefits. His chest felt full of butterflies as the reality of his situation began to register. This wasn't play money. This was real. He was _actually_ going to be able to get Harry some help.

He had to visit the flat for his own phone charger, his laptop, and some fresh clothes for the day. He would surprise Harry with some shopping! Using this exorbitant spending money for a little treat or two wouldn't be against the spirit of his arrangement with Gabriel, he didn't think. Not leftover muffins, he could get Harry some of those Chelsea buns she really liked. She did still like those, didn't she? And milk and bread and tea.

John left the hotel with a brisk step. It was bright, sunny morning, and he squinted up at the clear, blue sky, daring it to judge him.

* * *

Sherlock spent most of his taxi ride to Westminster refusing to second-guess his offer to John Watson. It was a perfectly reasonable arrangement. Practical, even. John had perhaps not responded well initially—_rough, tie me, suck_…Sherlock squirmed in his seat-but he had seen reason in the end.

He spent the rest of the time determinedly avoiding any thoughts on exactly how he was going to carry through on the offer—_don't think about rough, fingers, tie me._ His mind—his clearly _faltering_ mind—had not planned far past _keep him_.

The timing of this ridiculous _want_ of Sherlock's was beyond unfortunate, with the case coming to a head. A substitute for cocaine? An applied stimulant? Possibly. He didn't care. He wanted it. He wanted _more_.

And it would only be for a week, after all.

"This is it," the driver announced, breaking Sherlock's thoughts away from the slide of short blond-brown-grey hair under his palms as he pulled the taxi up to the kerb. His destination was a small café ever-so-cleverly titled Perqs and advertising artisanal coffees.

Sherlock paid the cabbie and strolled in, casting a quick scan across the shop. It was doing a lively trade for mid-morning on a weekday. Two students in a corner booth: rumpled hipster t-shirts and hand-knitted scarves, they'd been out all night. Professional woman: attractive, early 30s, tan trench coat and a cloud of dark hair, absorbed by her mobile. Teacher: early 20s, blonde-haired and pink-cheeked, on holiday and hoping to meet someone, her flirty new red boots were blistering her heels. Three stubble-chinned tradesmen talking football. A smattering of other boring people talking about boring things. A nice, safe, public meeting place.

Sherlock donned his Gabriel March smile as he approached a tense-looking woman in a high-necked grey sheath dress seated at a table near the back of the café. The steamed milk heart design in her caffè macchiato was undisturbed, although she'd all but shredded one edge of the paper napkin beneath it. The heel of one polished Manolo Blahnik pump tapped an anxious staccato against the wooden floor.

"Ms Golynski," Sherlock said quietly, and slid into the chair opposite her before she could acknowledge him. "Thank you for meeting me."

Her vivid green eyes, by far her best feature, narrowed in their nest of heavily mascaraed lashes. "I don't have it yet," she whispered urgently. "I need more time."

Sherlock folded his leather-gloved hands calmly on the table top, and Clare Golynski pulled her macchiato closer to her, away from his hands. Some of the coffee sloshed over the side of the white cup and was absorbed by the napkin underneath.

"How much more time?" Sherlock asked, keeping his voice softly sweet. Too sweet.

"Your man said I had _two weeks_. It's only been ten days!" Her voice pitched higher, volume rising.

Sherlock gave her several moments to let her agitation increase as he leaned forward and let his eyes crawl over her face and body in an insolent inspection. "Is it really _that_ difficult?" he finally smiled. Still sweetly. "Perhaps you're not as capable as I'd hoped."

"Tomorrow-" she all but yelped.

"Shhhhh," Sherlock quieted her with a slow blink.

"Tomorrow," she repeated, dropping her voice to a whisper again. "I'm visiting Ted tomorrow night. His wife is visiting relatives. I have the pills and I know where he keeps the records. It's all going to happen."

Sherlock rocked back in his chair, steepling his fingers in satisfaction. "Excellent. Interesting. Ted would be Theodore Trigg, of course, your supervisor and the man you plan to seduce or drug into a stupor tomorrow night. The records I suspect would be, given your mutual line of business, an account of your high profile clients' direct pharmaceutical orders. Am I right?"

Clare stared at him. "Of course that's right. That's what you _told_ me to do."

A corner of Sherlock's mouth turned up. "Or, rather, what my _man_ told you do."

She shook her head uncomprehendingly. "Yes. So?"

"Ms Golynski," Sherlock said, "I'm afraid you've been labouring under a misapprehension—albeit a deliberately cultivated one. I am not your blackmailer."

The bright green eyes widened in alarm. "Then who…how…oh, God…"

"It's alright, Ms Golynski. I think we can help one another." Sherlock looked at her with a determined expression that was, this time, entirely his own. "Shall we begin again?"

* * *

Harry was in at the flat, thankfully sober, showered, and engulfed in her favourite fuzzy brown dressing gown when John arrived laden with shopping bags. He delighted in the stunned look on her face.

She stumped into the kitchen behind him and leaned over his shoulder as he unloaded his morning's purchases. "Johnny, love, did you rob a bank?" she marvelled.

"No, you cow, I did not." He shoved her away playfully. "Get off me. And don't call me Johnny. Just a bit of shopping, you know? Oh, and I stopped off by Wendell's office and we're, er, good for one more week's extension on the rent."

"Alright then, if you didn't rob a bank, where'd all this come from, eh? Your cheque come in? Thought that wasn't for two more weeks, you said."

John turned to look at his sister. "You know that thing makes you look like Chewbacca, right?" he nodded at her robe.

"You're still just jealous I'm taller than you." Harry shoved him back, then reached behind him to pick up a pack of Jammie Dodgers. She turned it around in her hands, squashing the biscuits at each end of the package as she'd done since they were kids. "Seriously, John…what's going on?"

"I got a job. Don't get too worked up. It's only for a week." He had decided during the taxi ride he had treated himself to that he would not tell her yet about his hopes for the rehab program. It was a _big_ thing, so it was best to wait until he actually had the cash in hand. Not that he doubted Gabriel's honesty. Of all the things he doubted, Gabriel's honesty was not one of them. "But the pay's not bad at all. I got an…advance. It'll help."

"Well…great, that's great! Come and tell me about it."

"I can't tell you too much, just now." _I'm sleeping with a man for money, but at least I didn't rob a bank. _"I've got some other bits and pieces to do. Very busy and important. I just need to pick up my things."

Harry frowned. "Your things? What for? Where is this job?"

"It's…not far. In the City. I'll be working…on site….for the week."

"On site?" Harry's eyes narrowed at him suspiciously. "That where you were last night? On site?"

He really should have thought his story through better. Harry had always been able to tell when he was not being entirely truthful, even though John thought he had an excellent poker face. A special sister skill, he supposed. John smiled reassuringly. "It's nothing to worry about. The…man…who's hired me wants me to stay nearby. In a hotel, actually. Time-sensitive work."

Harry leaned back against the worktop and folded her arms. "How well do you know this _man_?"

"Well enough."

"You're a sodding liar. What sort of _job_ is this?"

John flushed, looking guilty as hell even though he hadn't lied at all! He raised his chin belligerently. "He…" Stick to the truth. Just not all of it. "He injured himself in a car accident and needs an assistant for the week. Just running errands, that sort of thing. That's why I'm staying at the hotel. For…convenience."

"So you're letting a strange man put you up in some seedy hotel? Are you _barking_?"

"It's a _nice_ hotel," John muttered.

"And he's a _nice_ man, too, huh? He could be…Johnny, you think you know what people are like just because you've been in the army, but you _don't_." Harry rolled her eyes at his sad, sad naiveté. "Is he twisted? Some sort of freak? What's wrong with him?"

"Harry, it's fine. It's not like that." His jaw set stubbornly as his temper flared. It wasn't _like that_. Not really. He wouldn't have agreed if it was _like that_. Gabriel wasn't twisted. And if Gabriel _was_ twisted, well…then so was John. And it was nobody's business but their own. By agreement.

Harry sighed. "Just look after yourself, yeah?"

John sighed, too, letting the wave of defensiveness go. "Of course. What about you? Are you going to…be alright for the week?"

"I'm not helpless, either, John," she scowled.

_Not what I meant. _"Yeah, alright, well…I'll just get my things, then."

He bumped into her deliberately on his way out of the kitchen and they exchanged matching smirks of reluctant temporary accord.

John's mobile chimed on his way into his bedroom with a message from Mrs Hudson.

Kilgour 12:30 Mr J Rance Liberty 2:30 Ms Penelope Finch

John nodded in approval—he'd just have time to drop his belongings off at the hotel before the appointment for his suit. He quickly changed into a fresh pair of pants, jeans, and a clean jumper and gathered up his phone charger, laptop case, extra pants, another pair of jeans, and his toiletries bag. He supposed that was all he needed, if he was meant to buy _proper_ clothes for the week.

He paused on his way out of his room, then turned back and shut and locked the door to his bedroom and opened the door to his wardrobe. Climbing on a chair to reach the upper shelf, he pulled down a heavy metal box and unlocked it with a key he kept on his keychain. The SIG Sauer P226 he had, through a series of favours and extraordinary luck, managed to retain from his army days rested within. His hands were steady as he verified the weapon's magazine was unloaded and the chamber was clear. He kept it well-maintained. He tucked the gun and a small supply of ammunition into separate pockets of his laptop bag and closed the wardrobe again.

He didn't plan to use it, but he felt better when it was nearby. Gabriel needn't know.

Harry was waiting in the sitting room, perched on an arm of the sofa with a steaming mug of tea in hand.

"So the money's good, you said?"

"Pretty good, yeah."

"How good?" She was doing her casual face now.

"Good enough for a week's work."

"And that," she flicked a finger toward the kitchen, "was just an advance? When do you get the rest?"

"End of the week, of course."

"Huh. That's probably what's wrong with him." She blew on her tea to cool it, watching him over the rim of the mug. "Well…like I said…look after yourself, you great twat."

"I'm only a phone call away if you need me."

"Yeah, I know. Now bugger off and go make some money."

"Love you too, Harry," John smirked, hitching his bag up onto his shoulder and picking up his cane.

"And…sorry about your trainers."

John frowned over his shoulder. "What about my trainers?"

"Oh. You didn't see." Harry took a very demure sip of tea. "Never mind, then. Off you go!"

* * *

Sherlock rounded the corner to Berkeley Square, walking to think as he processed his conversation with Clare Golynski. The cool air on his face was making his mind feel especially clear so he flipped the collar of Gabriel March's grey wool overcoat back down and loosened his scarf so he could feel the breeze on his neck as well. The details of the blackmail scheme didn't concern him. The best, the most delightful piece of information was the confirmation that Spencer—because he knew it was Spencer from whom she had received her instructions—was someone's man.

_Someone's man_.

Gabriel March's phone buzzed from his coat pocket. Sherlock fished it out and checked the alerts.

::_ Mission accomplished. Acquired: one proper suit. -J_

Sherlock texted back without breaking his long stride, even though typing with his left thumb only was aggravatingly slow.

::_ Good. You can wear it to dinner tonight. GM _

:: _I thought you didn't eat. -J _

:: _You do. GM _

:: _Is this a date? -J _

:: _It's a meal. GM _

:: _I hardly need to seduce you. GM_

There was no response from John for the next three blocks, as Sherlock chose a route that took him along Conduit Street past several exclusive menswear shops and headed in the direction of Savile Row. He automatically swivelled his head as he walked to scan the pedestrian traffic for a diminutive man with a cane. It wasn't unlikely John was in this area right now. Unless he'd finished his shopping already. Had Sherlock offended him with his last comment? He was simply stating a fact. They had an agreement. Finally his phone buzzed again.

::_ No, I guess that's my job. -J _

::_ How's this? -J (2 photo attachments)_

Sherlock opened the first photo. It was John, taken of himself in what looked like the private dressing area of a shop. It was a close shot, taken from John's arm length and angled slightly up so that it caught his exposed throat and the curve of his jaw. He was looking down into the camera, one corner of his mouth tugged up into a smirk, his eyes half-closed, the tips of his long eyelashes highlighted gold. Sherlock's eyebrows rose appreciatively. He weaved around a couple pushing a stroller as he called up the second photo, and actually grunted aloud. This shot was of the top of John's unzipped trousers. His stomach was bare, showing the soft trail of light brown hair starting just below his navel and disappearing beneath the elastic band of his underwear. Sherlock took a deep breath and closed the view of the photos to reply to the message.

::_ good GM _

::_ It's very good. GM_

Sherlock stopped mid-stride on the pavement.

"Watch it, mate!" a gruff voice admonished, veering around him with a rough shoulder bump.

Sherlock ignored it and called up the photos again. What was John _wearing_? He peered at the photos. While the focus of the photo was on John's throat, he could see a bit of his suit jacket and shirt in the shot as well. The suit jacket was blue with a wide, bold pin stripe. The shirt that lay open at his neck was a paisley in a mix of vivid yellows. Peeking out from under the collar was a lime green and yellow floral tie. In the second photo, John's trousers also bore the aggressive pin stripe. His underwear, Sherlock supposed, did match the trousers—they too were striped white and blue.

Sherlock's brow furrowed in pain.

:: _John, no. GM _

::_ John, your clothes. GM_

There was no response.

::_ John, you look like you're hosting a panto. GM _

::_ John, where are you? GM_

::_ John?_

Sherlock sighed and looked up and down the street. Somewhere nearby John Watson was outfitting himself in a distinctly inelegant, distinctly non-conservative wardrobe. He supposed he could correct the matter tomorrow, perhaps accompany him to replace the flashier items. Sherlock looked at the pictures again and started to chuckle.

Somewhere nearby, John Watson.

Somewhere nearby…Sherlock squinted toward Regent Street where a woman stood at the corner looking at a display of shoes in a Clark's shop window. Professional woman: attractive, early 30s, tan trench coat and a cloud of dark hair.

Sherlock pocketed his mobile, tightened his scarf, and turned the collar of his coat back up with a snap. He started walking again, turning onto Regent Street toward Piccadilly Circus. He was almost a block away when the dark-haired woman turned to follow.

Oh, things _were_ getting interesting.


	5. Chapter 5

**IL TRAVIATO**

**Chapter Five**

* * *

John strolled across the Rivers' lobby with a little extra spring in his good leg. He had to admit that the quality and fit of the clothes did seem to make a noticeable difference in how he both looked and felt.

Liberty was delivering most of his purchases to the hotel, but he had worn one of his favourite outfits (yes, he was wearing an "outfit") out of the store. A new pair of perfectly-fitted jeans, tobacco brown grain leather brogues, and a dusky red knit jumper that his personal shopper Penelope (yes, he had a "personal shopper") had been quite enthusiastic about, and his absolute favourite—a navy suede bomber jacket.

He had been unable to help stealing glances at himself in every vaguely reflective surface he passed on his way back to the hotel. His arse actually looked more firm. His shoulders looked broader. Fit. Maybe even a little taller. He looked _good_. And the Kilgour suit had made him feel like James Bond. It was to be delivered, as well, after a few alterations. He was looking forward to wearing it. Mostly—to be honest, and his own anticipation surprised him—he was looking forward to Gabriel's reaction.

Inside the suite he shed the bomber jacket along with a royal blue cashmere scarf. The jacket he hung with care in the entryway cupboard. The scarf was a gift for Gabriel, though it seemed odd to purchase a gift for someone with his own credit card. John had pulled it out of its gift box on impulse to wear it around his own neck on his return, and now he refolded it and smoothed it back into its tissue paper wrapping. He placed the sealed box on Gabriel's pillow.

One night and it was "Gabriel's pillow" and "John's pillow," was it? John snorted at himself. Gabriel hadn't even actually _slept_ there, for fuck's sake.

There was a light, rapid knock at the door of the suite.

"Dr Watson?" called Mrs Hudson. She sounded excited.

"Come in," John called back, and Mrs Hudson bustled in with a long garment bag folded over one arm.

"Your suit's been delivered. I had to bring it up myself. Oh, sir, it's lovely," she said conspiratorially.

"That was fast." John said, appreciating the tailoring and delivery speed, and grinned. "You've had a look, then?"

Mrs Hudson coloured faintly. "Quality inspection, sir. After all, you were acting on my advisement."

"Of course," John nodded solemnly. "I appreciate your diligence. So I did alright?"

"Lovely," she repeated rapturously. "I knew it had to be Kilgour for you. If they were good enough for Mr Cary Grant," she sighed nostalgically, "they're good enough for Dr John Watson. Didn't I _tell_ you how handsome you were going to look?"

Ducking his head with a self-conscious smile, John took the garment bag and draped it over the back of a sitting room chair. "You did indeed. And I have to tell you…I _did_ have fun. Thank you again, Mrs Hudson."

"Part of the service, sir."

Looking at her composed expression, John suddenly wondered…how often did Mrs Hudson perform these sorts of services for Gabriel? She seemed quite comfortable provisioning John to be a suitable guest for Mr March, even if this was a typical part of her job. And Gabriel was a handsome man. He could have all the company he wanted. Clearly _company_ was the one thing Gabriel did do while he was working.

John looked at his shoes. "So you…do this sort of thing often? Take care of your guests'…_guests_?"

"This was a pleasure, sir," Mrs Hudson chuckled. "You'd be surprised, some of the things I've been asked to assist with."

"Ah."

She gave him a sharp glance and reached over to pat his arm. "_Other_ guests, dear. Mr March is quite…self-sufficient."

"Have you known him long? Does he stay here often?"

Mrs Hudson just tilted her head kindly. "I think you'd best ask Mr March any further questions, sir."

"Oh, of course…I didn't mean…" John's attempt at casual denial faltered and fell flat. "It's really none of my business," he finally shrugged. And it certainly wasn't. "Sorry."

"And if you're not going to try it on, you hang that suit up properly right now," she admonished him gently.

John picked the garment bag back up and scuffed toward the entry cupboard with it.

"Sir?"

John blinked at her. "Yes?"

"I said _if_ you're not going to try it on…" Mrs Hudson said hopefully.

Grinning again, John switched directions and headed for the bedroom to change.

* * *

Mrs Hudson was lying in wait for Sherlock when he returned to the hotel. She ambushed him near the lifts, clearly keen to affect a fortuitous but accidental encounter. "Oh, Mr March," she exclaimed brightly, "I'm so pleased I've found you here. I have a message from your doctor."

"My doctor," Sherlock repeated dryly.

"Yes, sir. I trust your wrist is healing well under his care?" Mrs Hudson arched an eyebrow. "He wanted you to know he's waiting for you in the lounge."

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson." Sherlock's head swivelled toward the low sound of generic, unchallenging music coming from a hallway on the opposite side of the lobby.

"Very intriguing young man," Mrs Hudson spoke up behind him as he started to move away, "your Doctor Watson."

Sherlock turned back to look at her curiously.

"Have a good evening, sir." She walked away with an enigmatic smile.

Sherlock checked his watch on the way into the hotel bar. It had taken him longer than he'd anticipated to lose his new _friend_. His first impulse had been to confront her, intimidate her purpose in tailing him out of her. It was usually the most efficient method for gathering information. But a closer look at her attire as well as her surveillance tactics made it quickly apparent _what_ she was—_police officer_. That still left the question of _why_ he had become the focus of her attention, but obviously it had to do with Clare Golynski, which meant it had to do with Philip Spencer. Which meant…what?

He squeezed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. Perhaps he should not have suggested this dinner after all. It had been an impulsive thought. The case was where his attention should be focussed.

He scanned the room, looking for a small man dressed as a carnival ride.

It took two full visual sweeps before Sherlock's eyes locked onto a man leaning casually against the bar, cool and slim in a perfectly-fitted dark blue herringbone suit that was not remotely chalk-striped, garish, or comical. The man wearing that suit was utterly _elegant_—and _that_ was _John_.

_Intriguing man_.

A woman was hovering about him, a doe-eyed, curvaceous brunette who was over-laughing at whatever it was John had just said. She touched John's sleeve and Sherlock crossed the room in six long strides.

"He's with me," he announced sharply.

The woman's big, vacant brown eyes widened at him in surprise. "I was just—"

"I said _he's with me._" Sherlock moved in so he could loom over her and stared down his nose coldly. And off she went, spluttering and muttering harsh words that he had no interest in as long as she was moving _away_.

"You're late," John said mildly. An empty glass sat by his hand on the bar. "And that was rude."

There was a glint in his eyes. Irritation? Humour? Something else? Sherlock's eyes travelled down the row of small, close-set buttons on the caramel cashmere knitted waistcoat under John's suit jacket. The bottom button was open, revealing a glimpse of a brown leather and a silver belt buckle. "You're…you look…good." He swallowed and touched a fingertip to one of the buttons. _Want._

"You were expecting something else?"

Yes, _that_ look was amused. Sherlock fixed him with an accusatory glare. "You did that on purpose. That…fancy dress costume."

"Yeah, it's called taking the piss." He was smiling. Teasing, not mocking. Not the same as _piss off_.

"Voltaire," Sherlock said, his eyes drifting to John's subtly-textured chocolate brown tie. He touched another waistcoat button. The surface of the little disc was cool, but he could feel the heat of John's body just underneath. "We're going to the Voltaire."

"Alright. I don't know what that is, but alright. Just," he held up a warning hand, and said saucily, "as long as we're clear this is _not_ a date."

More teasing. Inclusive. Warm eyes. Sherlock stepped closer to him, pressed his body against John's raised palm. Tugged another button between his fingers. Dropped his voice. "Afterward, I want to unwrap you."

John's intake of breath was gratifying. His cheeks flushed. His pupils widened. He leaned in toward Sherlock. His voice was gruff, too. "Then you've changed your mind about seducing me?"

Sherlock's mouth curled up. _Teasing_ it was, then. "I hardly need to, do I?"

* * *

The Voltaire lived up to John's expectations of elegance based on what he'd seen thus far of Gabriel's tastes, but it was also surprisingly comfortable. Cosy, even. The elegance came from high ceilings, warm red walls accented with white trim, and large, gold-framed, beautifully-painted nighttime scenes of both London and Paris. The comfort came from padded leather dining chairs John could only describe as _squishy,_ set around simple rustic wood tables. Beside each table was a floor lamp that cast a pool of light over the diners seated there—creating an island of warmth and intimacy with the relative darkness of privacy just beyond. It had a very homey feel…if your home was actually quite grand.

John was still feeling the buzz of Gabriel's unexpected show of possessiveness and tantalizing little touches at the hotel bar. Even though they had passed the taxi ride to the restaurant mostly in silence, Gabriel's gaze had drifted to him frequently, wandered his body with interest and promise.

The suit was a success.

"I looked you up on the Internet this afternoon," John volunteered after they had ordered their meals.

Gabriel twitched an eyebrow at him. "Anything interesting?"

John leaned back his seat and pursed his lips, tilted his head in consideration. "Depends. Do you spend much time in the States racing tractors and monster trucks?"

"Not recently."

"Hm, that was probably the wrong Gabriel March, then. No, I don't think I found you. You're a man of mystery."

Gabriel took a swallow of his wine and made a sour face. "What was it you wanted to know?"

His tone didn't suggest he would actually provide an answer, more that he was simply curious.

John shrugged. "Anything you want to tell me, I guess. I still don't know what you do for a living. Except that you're not a lawyer. But if you don't want to…share, that's fine. After all…"

Gabriel nodded. "It's only for a week."

"Right." John looked down at the table. Picked up a fork. Turned it over in his fingers.

There was an aggrieved sigh from the other side of the table. "Finance. Investments."

A bit vague, but it was a start. "Well. Makes sense. City and all. I suppose that's interesting work?"

Gabriel sighed again, all discouragement in his voice. Meanwhile his leg brushed John's under the table. "It's really not. Wouldn't you rather hear—" He stilled as something over John's shoulder caught his attention. His eyes narrowed.

John turned and saw a silver-haired man in a light grey trench coat approaching their table.

The man commandeered an empty chair from a nearby table, moved it between John and Gabriel's, and had a seat. He smiled at them pleasantly, with big white teeth and big brown eyes that put John in mind of a sort of ruggedly handsome cartoon chipmunk. "Evening," he said affably, placing a brown file folder on the table. "Mind if I join you?"

"Friend of yours, Gabriel?" John frowned. His skin prickled as he sensed rather than saw the tension that crawled over Gabriel.

"Oh, sorry," the man smiled and offered John his hand. "Greg Lestrade."

John accepted the handshake automatically, although he remained wary. "John Watson."

"And…Gabriel, is it?" Lestrade held his hand out to Gabriel, who didn't bother to look at it or offer his hand in return.

"No."

Lestrade withdrew his hand. "No?"

"No, John, this isn't a friend of mine. I don't know him. And, no, Mr Lestrade, you are not welcome to join us. Or should I say _Detective Sergeant_ Lestrade?"

"Detective Inspector, actually," he nodded, unfazed, and pulled a police badge from inside his coat. "And, no, you don't know me…but I know you." He glanced at John again. "Gabriel."

Gabriel smirked. "I doubt that."

Lestrade opened his file folder. On top of a stack of papers was a photo of, sitting in what looked like a coffee shop with a striking blonde woman. He was, John noticed, wearing the tie John had tied for him that morning. Lestrade put his finger on it and looked at Gabriel. "I think we have a common acquaintance."

Gabriel's eyes flicked down to the picture, back up to Lestrade's face.

"You met this woman today," Lestrade said.

Gabriel twitched a shoulder, then took a deep breath and let it out in a woeful sigh. "Date. We met online and thought we'd have a coffee, try it on. It didn't work out." He wrinkled his nose. "Not my type."

John frowned.

"Mm," Lestrade nodded. "And her name?"

"RhinestoneCowgirl69. Has she done something wrong?" Gabriel's eyes widened. "Have I had a narrow escape?"

Lestrade sighed and closed the folder. Drummed his fingers on it while he studied Gabriel. John shifted in his seat uncomfortably.

"I knew your brother, you know," Lestrade said.

Gabriel flinched as though he'd been doused with ice water.

Lestrade lowered his voice. "I'm very sorry for your loss."

John looked back and forth between the two men. The air had gone thick and heavy around them. Lestrade looked sincerely sorrowful. Gabriel's lips had gone white around the edges. "I'm sorry, too," John offered into the awkward, tense silence. Neither man looked at him.

Gabriel lifted his wine and took a large swallow. His hand was shaking. John's instinct was to reach for him, even though he was now feeling completely lost as to what was going on. If Gabriel was in some sort of trouble with the police—what had John gotten himself into here? Lestrade was looking down, giving Gabriel a moment to collect himself. There was another long moment of uncomfortable silence.

"I told you," Lestrade continued quietly, "I know you. I recognized you. Seen your picture before. He talked about you. And I know what you do. What I don't know is what you're doing in the middle of _this_." He gave his file folder another thump with his index finger.

Gabriel's nostrils flared. "I've told you all I can, Detective Inspector."

Lestrade gave John another assessing look. John blinked back owlishly. Gabriel, he noted, had not looked at him once since Lestrade had walked in.

"I'm breaking every protocol being here. Sally wants to know why I haven't arrested you already."

"_Sally_," Gabriel scowled.

"Sergeant Donovan." A grin tugged at the corner of Lestrade's mouth. "Thought you'd lost her, didn't you? She's good."

Gabriel's scowl deepened.

"_We're_ good. But I think you might be better. If you know something that would help, we should work _together_. Share what you know, I'll give you everything we have. I don't know what you're after, but…there are lives at stake."

"Then go do your job and look after them," Gabriel said coldly. "I wish you success in your endeavours. As long as you stay out of my way."

Lestrade shook his head. "Next time you get in _my_ way, I _will_ arrest you."

Gabriel gave him a little mock bow from his seat, eyes snapping. "I look forward to it, sir."

Lestrade rubbed wearily at the stubble on his jaw. "Yeah, I guess that's enough for now." He reached into one of the pockets of his coat and pulled out a business card. He stood, picking up his file folder and replacing it with the card. "So you know where to find me. If you change your mind. And I hope you do. Mr Watson, pleasure to meet you." He nodded to John.

John mumbled something incoherent in reply.

He started to leave, then turned back. He seemed to be struggling with himself for a moment before he finally said to Gabriel, "He was proud of you, you know."

"I thought you said you _knew_ him," Gabriel snorted his first acknowledgement of his brother's existence. Former existence, John supposed. "Apparently not very well."

"Well enough." Lestrade's eyes were grave. "He was a good man."

Gabriel swallowed the remainder of his wine in one gulp and made the sour face again. "Most people who _knew_ him would have described him either a great man or a complete bastard. Your faint praise belies your claim, Inspector," he smirked.

Lestrade's jaw clenched. "Then _most_ people are idiots. He _was_ a good man. And he _was_ proud of you. It's why I came to you. I also know he was never wrong. Don't make this the exception." Lestrade nodded. "That's all I have to say. Enjoy your dinner."

As soon as Lestrade's figure was out of sight, Gabriel rose so abruptly he almost overturned his chair. He threw a handful of bills on the table. "We're leaving," he told John shortly, and strode past the puzzled-looking waiter who had just appeared with their dinner plates.

John grabbed his cane, picked up Lestrade's card and shoved it into his pocket, and shouldered past the waiter with a regretful look at the plate of braised ribs on his serving tray. They probably would have been delicious.

He almost didn't make it into the cab Gabriel flagged down, and suspected Gabriel would have left him standing on the street had he not made a lunge for the door as it was closing. The silence between them in the back of the taxi this time was not shared—it was two pockets of isolated silence. While Gabriel stared fixedly out his window, hand curled into a tight fist in front of his mouth, John tried to sort out what had just happened in the restaurant.

Immediately upon their return to their suite in the Rivers, John followed Gabriel onto the terrace and watched him drop into one of the chairs, tucking his knees up and wrapping his arms around himself, a balled-up rock of leave-me-alone staring up at the night sky.

"So what was all that, then?" John asked quietly.

When his only answer was silence, John pulled another chair over next to Gabriel and sat. "So you met a woman for coffee. Today. A woman the police were watching."

"Obviously," Gabriel gritted out.

"That inspector wants your help. And," John felt his way through it, "you don't want to help him."

Gabriel made an angry sound in the back of his throat. "She should _not_ have been able to follow me. I'm _better_ than that."

John's brow furrowed. "Who? The coffee woman? Or that Sally person? Was that…really a date?"

"Everything's _off_, _wrong_," Gabriel snarled, bolting out of his chair. He started pacing the length of the terrace. "_I_ don't make mistakes. _I_ don't miss things. _I_ don't do," he waved a hand at John, "_this_."

John blinked, stung.

Gabriel sighed impatiently. "Oh, don't be like that. There's nothing wrong with _you_."

_Ha. _Everything was wrong with him. A limp was fine, a tremor was fine, but something was wrong at his core, something that made him useless, not a part of the world any more. And now he couldn't even do _this_, this thing with Gabriel. And he'd thought, what, that a snog and a grope and a posh suit were going to turn things around? It made John laugh, a puff that threatened to turn into a manic confusion-fuelled giggle if he didn't swallow it down hard. "He…didn't seem like a bad bloke, that Inspector."

Gabriel waved the statement away.

"Are you…in some kind of trouble? Is there anything I can do? Can I…help?"

"How could _you_ help?" Gabriel stopped pacing to stare at him with a puzzled expression.

John just shook his head. "I don't know."

"I can't—" Gabriel balled up his fist with an exasperated growl. "I need to _think_."

Then he was gone, disappeared into the darkened sitting room, shutting the terrace door behind him with a sharp, dismissive _snick_.

John leaned back in his chair and stared up at the cold night sky.

* * *

_I'm sorry Mycroft. I still love you. Extra hugs and kisses for you in my next Mystrade._


	6. Chapter 6

**IL TRAVIATO**

**Chapter Six**

* * *

John stayed outside on the terrace, letting the sounds of the London streets far below occupy him, until the cold finally got the better of him. When he came back into the suite, it was quiet and still dark. A quick check of each room confirmed Gabriel's absence. He rubbed his face, not entirely certain whether or not he was annoyed to find himself alone. He supposed he had no real right to annoyance—he was an employee, after all, not an actual guest. And he was well able to entertain himself. He ran his hand down the row of buttons on his waistcoat.

He wanted a cup of tea.

He _was_ annoyed—_justly_, in this case, he thought—that in the kitchenless suite he couldn't go through the motions of making a proper tea for himself. Because going through the motions was really half the point, wasn't it? Grudgingly he rang for room service.

While he waited, John changed out of his suit and hung it neatly and regretfully away far at the back of Gabriel's wardrobe. He changed into the comfortably familiar pyjama bottoms and t-shirt he'd brought from home, although he kept on the new pair of warm navy houndstooth wool-blend socks.

His tea arrived, delivered not by Mrs Hudson, but by a young man who remained irritatingly cheerful when confronted with John's surly acceptance of what could only be _semi_-comforting tea and a small selection of biscuits.

The rest of his purchases from Liberty had been delivered while he and Gabriel were out, so John restored a little order to his world as he drank his tea by putting his new clothes away in the rest of the free nooks and spaces he found in the wardrobe. He tucked his toiletries into a corner of the bathroom sink top.

Where might Gabriel have gone at this hour? How long did it take to _think_ about whatever he was _thinking_ about?

John checked his email. He scanned his favourite news sites, read the most interesting-looking articles.

He practiced twirling his cane between his fingers, but gave it up when a mistimed twist of his thumb almost resulted in a shattered table lamp.

When there was still no sign of Gabriel, John settled in on the sofa under a blanket and watched a documentary on 1970's British rock 'n' roll.

He poked his feet out from under his blanket and watched the way his toes moved inside his socks.

He flipped through channels on the telly again until he found a classic Cary Grant/Audrey Hepburn film that was just starting. By the time the menacing Walter Matthau was dealt with and Audrey Hepburn was set to marry Cary Grant in spite of his multiple identities and general shenanigans, and Gabriel _still_ had not returned to the room, John gave in to his restlessness and dialled the butler's number on the room's courtesy phone.

"I'm so sorry, Mrs Hudson, I know how late it is, but—"

"You're looking for Mr March, sir?"

"How did you know—"

"I'll be right there."

John didn't bother changing into more suitable attire. When Mrs Hudson knocked on his door and then beckoned him to follow her to the lifts, he just grabbed his cane and key card and left the suite. Mrs Hudson led him to the lobby, which was mostly deserted given the late hour, and toward one of the lounge areas. He heard music, the forlorn sound of a lone string instrument.

Mrs Hudson gave his shoulder a quick pat and gestured him inside with a sympathetic expression. "The lounge closed over an hour ago. He's been playing all night," she said. "Such sad songs."

Several hotel staff members were arrayed across the large, dimly-lit room, leaning against the walls or the backs of chairs with sweepers or rags in hand as though they'd paused in their duties tidying up to listen. Gabriel stood at the edge of a performer's platform set against wall that was lit in soft blue light and held an elegant black grand piano, playing a violin.

John stared, transfixed by both the sight and the sound. Gabriel's eyes were squeezed shut, and there was a deep groove between his brows. He swayed in place as he played, summoning melancholy from his body and directing it into the instrument. At some point he had removed his suit jacket—it was tumbled on the piano bench next to a violin case—and unbuttoned his shirt sleeves for more freedom of movement. His bow arm worked furiously, drawing lines of beauty and pain across the strings.

His _bow arm_.

John's teeth snapped shut and he marched across the room, his empty hand balled into a fist. The onlookers fixed him with curious stares. "What do you think you're doing?" he demanded in a low, clenched voice when he reached the edge of the platform.

Gabriel's eyes flew open as his exquisite music was cut off mid-phrase, and John felt a surge of remorse. Gabriel blinked several times before his eyes focussed on John. "It's not finished," he said, and frowned.

John eyed him with frustrated concern. "How long have you been playing?"

Gabriel looked around the room a little blankly, as if just noticing where he was standing. "What time is it?"

"I don't know. Late. I thought you said you had to think."

"I _was_ thinking," Gabriel insisted, giving the bow a defiant _swish_ through the air.

"Here, stop that, give this to me," John ordered, reaching for the bow. Gabriel relinquished both violin and bow to him without resistance, surprisingly enough, and John placed them gently in their case. He reached cautiously for Gabriel's wrist, his bow arm. It was swollen again, and John could feel the skin under the bandage was hot. "Does it hurt?"

"More than I expected," Gabriel said. His face was still distant, dramatic and dark-eyed in blue light and shadow.

"Well, I'm hardly surprised. I've seen a lot of aggressive injury denial in my time, but this is the first time I've seen it done with a violin." John shook his head, prodding and twisting the wrist in a brisk and efficient inspection. "Yep, you've aggravated the injury, and you'll likely feel it even more tomorrow. Come upstairs. I'll take care of it."

"You can't." Gabriel's voice was dull.

"What?"

"You can't take care of it. You can't fix it. _I_ can't fix it."

John raised his eyes from Gabriel's wrist to his face and made his voice mild."What are we talking about now?" _The brother? The police?_

"Why do you _care_ so much? Caring is _not_ an advantage," Gabriel said fiercely.

John snorted, and attempted a nonchalant shrug. "Well, too bad. It's…part of the service." He released Gabriel's wrist with a wry smile. "No extra charge."

Gabriel glared at him severely for the space of several long breaths. "Leave us," he barked over John's shoulder.

John startled, then turned his head and watched as the lingering hotel staff obeyed Gabriel's order and shuffled toward the lobby. He'd forgotten they were even there. The last man out closed the doors behind him.

Pulse pounding seemed to be John's natural state around Gabriel March. His intensity was as good as a jog across the park. Back when John was able to jog across the park. Now the hair on the back of his neck was standing on end…and that part never happened when he used to jog.

He licked his lips and nodded toward the now-closed lounge door. "Do people always do what you tell them—"

Gabriel spun him, pushed him back, back... His back hit the wall, knocking the breath out of him in a gasp. His cane clattered to the floor. Gabriel's mouth was on his before the exhalation was finished, hot and insistent. He pinned John to the wall with his body, elbows on the wall on either side of John's head.

"I guess so," John huffed as Gabriel's mouth moved to the side of his neck. "Oh," he slid his hands around Gabriel's lean waist and gasped as teeth nipped at his skin.

"John. I want you," Gabriel growled, pressing into himW.

"I'm…getting that."

Gabriel was hard against his abdomen, sliding his hips and thighs against John's body, working the fine cloth of his suit trousers against John's pyjama bottoms. He slid his hand in between them, palmed John's growing erection through the soft, worn flannel, and dragged his mouth across John's jaw. "Inside me."

John's heart almost stopped. He felt his cock thickening under Gabriel's hand. "Oh, God. Are you…sure? Let's go upstairs and—"

"No," Gabriel insisted. "Here. Now." His hand dipped down to squeeze John's bollocks. He pressed his nose underneath John's ear. "Take me," he whispered. "Fuck me."

John made a sound that was far too close to a squeak. "_Right_ here?" He pushed Gabriel far enough away to look at his face. "We can't, we don't have—"

"My mouth. You want to. I've seen you looking."

John's eyes dropped immediately to his mouth, his full, wide mouth, and Gabriel licked his lips. John groaned out his name, "Gabriel…"

"I want it," Gabriel insisted, grinding his hips into John again, pushing his hand into the back of John's pyjama bottoms to squeeze a handful of his arse. John's body felt flushed with heat, but Gabriel's hand on his bare skin felt even hotter. "I want you."

In a smooth motion that ended with the bony thump of knees on wood, Gabriel dropped to the floor, pulling John's pyjama bottoms down to his thighs as he went. He wrapped an arm around John's hips and sucked his cock into his mouth. "Jesus!" John cried, throwing his head back until it hit the wall. "Oh, fuck." His hands flailed uselessly at his sides.

Gabriel licked him in sloppy, wet stripes, kissed his balls, tongued at his foreskin, bobbed his sleek, dark head up and down along his shaft, lapping and sucking at him awkwardly and furiously. His mouth seemed to be everywhere at once, hot and relentless.

"God, Gabriel," he breathed, barely able to remember how to form the words.

John's leg started to shake, and when he leaned his weight into the wall, Gabriel nipped at his thigh. "_Move_, John." Gabriel stared up at him, mouth wet and eyes hungry. He grabbed John's hand and pulled it to the back of his head, fisted John's fingers into his hair. "I told you what I want. _Take_ it. _I want you to_."

Gabriel dove at him again, sucked in his cock and tried to swallow around the head. He choked, a horrible glottal, meaty sound. He pulled off and tried again.

"No," John gasped, gripping Gabriel's hair tightly in his hand, pulling his head away. "Not like that."

Gabriel growled around him as his mouth slid away, and John shuddered violently. "Why not?" he demanded, glaring at John's erection. "You want me. Obviously. You do want me."

"Jesus," John panted. He was so hard he was aching, but this was all…too much. "No."

Gabriel's expression shifted from frustration to dismay. His eyes dropped.

"Yes," John said quickly, "I want you. God. Just." John moved his other hand to Gabriel's head, held him firmly.

Gabriel closed his eyes and sighed. "You don't understand." He leaned forward and kissed John's cock, reached up and petted at the top of his thigh. "I want to. I need…I need…" He kissed again. Again. Looked up at John. "Please."

The insane giggle welled in John's throat again. This beautiful man. On his knees in front of _him_. Pleading. "Yeah." _God, yes. _John loosened his grip in Gabriel's hair, massaged his head with his fingertips. Breathed. Squeezed his eyes shut. Breathed again. Opened his eyes. "Like I say, then. Alright? Like I say."

Gabriel's eyes lit. "Yes."

John drifted a gentle hand to the side of his jaw. "Open."

Gabriel opened his mouth slowly, stretching his tongue out just a little. John shuddered again, and a corner of Gabriel's mouth curved up.

John pushed his prick down. "Gently." He kept a hand in Gabriel's hair, not to push, just to hold him steady. "Oh, God, perfect. Yes, that thing with your tongue, do—_ohhh_, that."

Feeling a purr of satisfaction from inside Gabriel's mouth increased John's sense of urgency dramatically.

"Suck now." He gave Gabriel's hair a warning tug. "Just there, just…yes."

With his lips still stretched around John, Gabriel looked up at him questioningly and moved his hand to cup John's balls again.

"Yes, that, _yes_," John murmured. His hips wanted to thrust at full force, wanted badly to do what Gabriel had demanded of him from the start. "Hold still. Just like that." _Small movements, just the glans, just a little more, just halfway, that's all._ Gabriel closed his eyes and moaned, and both John's hands went to his hair as his hips moved faster. _Small, small, control._ He grunted with each thrust, little sounds of pained pleasure, while Gabriel's coaxing fingers followed the tightening of his balls.

Gabriel dropped his hand to John's thigh, dragged his fingertips straight up, nails teasing John's skin, under his t-shirt, found his nipple and pinched. John arched his back, shoving himself deeper into Gabriel's mouth. "Sorry," he gasped.

Gabriel's eyes rolled up to meet his. He grunted insistently around John's cock, swirled his tongue, and John groaned.

"Yes. Now. Now. I'm coming _now_," John tried to warn him, pushing at him, but Gabriel closed his eyes and _sucked_. John's moan echoed in the acoustically focussed room, startlingly raw and loud, and now he couldn't stop moving. His hips bucked forward and he came hard, pulse after pulse against the back of Gabriel's throat.

John wasn't sure how his legs were still holding him up. His loosened his fingers from dark curls and found his breath in a giddy whimper.

Gabriel coughed, dragging the back of his hand across his mouth.

"Oh, God, too much? Too much? Are you al—"

Gabriel rose from his knees and pressed his mouth to John's before he could get the rest of the question out, licking into it deeply, earnestly. John tasted himself, salty and sour on Gabriel's tongue.

"Good, yes?" Gabriel rasped, his voice hitching, when he pulled away. His eyes searched John's face. "Good?"

_Jesus. _John didn't think _good_ was the right word to describe what just happened. But it was the word Gabriel had chosen, so he repeated it back to him. "Yes," he murmured, stroking Gabriel's hair, his chest, his arm, anything he could touch. "Good. You're good."

It was the right word. Gabriel melted into him. He pressed his face into John's shoulder and shivered.

"You're so good. You're fine. You're good." Standing there with his pyjama bottoms still pushed down to his thighs, John wrapped his arms tightly around Gabriel and whispered the words against the back of his neck.

* * *

When they returned to the suite, there was a fire going and a bucket of ice waiting on a silver cart next to the dining table.

"That woman's a saint. You realize that, don't you?"

"She's good at her job," Gabriel agreed mildly, although he looked appreciative.

He let John tend to his wrist completely this time and swallowed his paracetamol without complaint. Once changed into his pyjamas, he returned to John in the sitting room and dutifully held a fresh ice pack to the wrist as he sat cross-legged on the sofa.

John leaned back against the opposite arm of the sofa, stretching his legs across the cushions between them, and looked at him curiously. Gabriel had been quiet since they'd come back upstairs, and he'd barely taken his eyes off John.

"You're staring," John finally pointed out.

"Yes." Gabriel nodded and visibly braced himself. "You've got questions."

John's eyebrows raised. As late as it was, and as relaxed as he probably should have been, post-orgasm, he was still keyed up, not ready to sleep. Yes, he had questions. He had a lot of questions. But Gabriel looked exhausted. "They can wait until morning," he offered, "which isn't too far off."

"I have one for you, but you have to ask yours first."

"And _yours_ can't wait until morning, I suppose?" John cocked his head, intrigued.

"No. Ask your questions."

"Anything?"

"Anything. If I don't wish to answer, I'll say as much."

John nodded his acquiescence and wriggled a little more comfortably into the sofa cushions. "Where did you find a violin?"

That surprised a smile out of Gabriel. "_That's_ what you want know?"

John shrugged. "It's my first question, yes."

Gabriel's posture relaxed. "It's mine. Obviously. I had it in the room."

"It was beautiful…what you were playing. I'm sure you know that. Of course you know that."

Gabriel dispelled the praise with a shake of his head. "That's not a question."

"When did your brother die?"

Gabriel looked down at his lap. "Two months ago."

"Were you close?"

"No." He frowned. "Not exactly."

"Who was that woman? In the photo?"

"Her name is Clare Golynski. She's the executive officer in charge of research and development at Klein Pharmaceuticals. You'll be familiar with the company, in your profession."

John nodded once.

"She's being blackmailed, manipulated in order to acquire certain information from her employer. I," Gabriel cleared his throat, "briefly posed as the blackmailer in order to find out more."

"More about…the information?"

"More about the blackmailer. Well, I already know who the _blackmailer_ is. What I don't know is who _his_ employer is."

"So. Not a date."

Gabriel smirked. "As I told Detective Inspector Lestrade…not my type."

"What is your type?"

"You're getting off topic."

"You said I could ask anything. Everything is on topic."

"This week it's short men with ludicrous striped underpants and an overabundance of ethics."

John snorted with amusement and disbelief. "I'm running quite low on ethics lately, actually."

"Who said I was talking about you?"

John grinned. "Fair point. What do you do?"

"I'm a detective."

John pursed his lips. "But you aren't working with the police."

"No."

A picture flashed into John's mind of the odd way DI Lestrade kept looking at him when he addressed Gabriel. "_Gabriel_…is that your real name?"

"No."

John was quiet for several thoughtful moments. "The blackmailer. That's your current case?"

"In a manner of speaking."

"So…" John scratched at his chin absently. "The police are trying to stop her being blackmailed? Why don't you want to work with that DI?"

"The police are in my way."

"But isn't stopping the crime the most important thing here? Why can't you just tell them who the blackmailer is, if you know?"

"I just told you. I don't know who _he_ works for yet."

"I see." He frowned, reconsidered. "No, I don't. I still don't see why you wouldn't work with the police. I think…" John hesitated, remembering and considering the exchange at the Voltaire. It was only a guess, but… "In spite of all that glaring, I think you actually liked Lestrade. I know you were…thrown, but I think you _liked_ him." John raised his chin a little, challenging Gabriel to deny what he thought was a fairly keen insight on his part.

"It's irrelevant whether I like him or not, John. I will not let myself become emotionally involved in a case."

"Right. You haven't seemed _emotional_ at all."

Gabriel scowled. "Something's _wrong_ with me. I'm usually able to keep myself distant."

"Two months after your brother's death, you're feeling emotional, and you think that's…unusual?" John asked.

"I'm running out of time, John." There was a tremor under the controlled baritone.

"What does that mean?"

"On the case. I've…made mistakes. I don't make mistakes, John, but I've made them this time. I only have one real chance left. That's why I have a question for you."

"Alright." John looked at him expectantly.

Gabriel swallowed. "Will you help?"

John held himself very still. "I thought you said I couldn't help."

"I didn't say that."

"You did. On the terrace."

"No, I asked _how_ you could. Now I know. So the question is…_will_ you?"

John felt like a matchstick had been struck down the centre of his chest, a tiny light of hope sizzling into being. But in a dark room, even the smallest light could be almost blinding. "Yes." His voice was hushed. "I will. Of course I will."

Gabriel didn't smile, but his eyes shone with satisfaction. "Sherlock."

John tilted his head quizzically. "What's that?"

"My name," he said, looking at John steadily, "is Sherlock Holmes."


	7. Chapter 7

**IL TRAVIATO**

**Chapter Seven**

* * *

"Wake up, John," a crisp voice directed. The order was punctuated by the snap of fabric as John's sheets and duvet were thrown to the far side of the mattress, exposing his sleep-sprawled form to a drift of cool air.

John dragged his cheek across the pillow case, the beginnings of stubble catching minutely on the fabric. "Z'time?" he grunted and blinked one eye up at his tall, tumble-haired accoster. Gabriel looked down at him with impatient eyes. John rolled over and gave him a lazy smile.

Blinked again.

Not Gabriel, _Sherlock_. Detective. Blackmail. _Lives at stake_.

He was abruptly fully awake, like a switch had been flipped on the back of his neck. A frisson of anticipation prickled his skin, a sense of _readiness_ he had not felt since Afghanistan. John pushed himself up to a sitting position and rubbed his face briskly. "Right. What's the plan? What are we doing?"

The purposeful tone of his questions was immediately undermined as he became aware of his morning erection making itself apparent from inside his pyjama bottoms. Rather perfunctory, but hardly business-like. He cleared his throat and pulled his knees in and a pillow onto his lap.

Sherlock dismissed John's groin with a wave of his hand. "Whatever you usually do in the mornings. Get up. Get on with it. I've been _waiting_." He was already showered and dressed in dark trousers and a light grey button-up, although his hair was still a mass of unruly curls and he wore a blue satin-striped dressing gown over his shirt.

"OK. Yeah. Of course." John swung himself out of bed, tossing his shield-pillow aside, and headed for the bathroom. "I'll be right there."

Since his return from Afghanistan, John sincerely appreciated the luxury of a leisurely shower, but this morning he showered at army speed, humming a non-specific, tuneless march under his breath as he washed. Once clean and shaved, he pulled on a pair of jeans and one of his new casual jumpers, a thick teal knit to combat what looked like dreary, cool weather outside. Nice-looking, but easy to move around in. His teeth clicked a quick rhythm as he pulled his socks on.

When he walked into the sitting room to double check the suitability of his attire for whatever kind of activity was planned, he discovered Sherlock lounging lengthwise across the sofa, still in his dressing gown, knees bent, his bony bare feet propped up on one arm rest. His eyes were closed and his hands resting on his chest, his left hand wrapped gently around his bandaged right wrist. The only change in his dress had been the addition of a blue cashmere scarf draped around his neck.

"I'm ready." John patted his jumper, bouncing on his heels. "Is this alright?"

"Tea, breakfast, over there," Sherlock jerked his head toward the dining table without opening his eyes.

John spared the waiting breakfast a disinterested glance. "Is there time?"

At that, Sherlock did turn his head to frown quizzically at John. "Of course there's time. Why wouldn't there be time?"

"Alright," John nodded, squeezed his hands in and out of fists, and took a deliberately slow breath in an effort to settle some of his restless energy. He limped across the room toward tea. "Alright. It's just you haven't actually _told_ me what we're meant to do today, Sherlock, so there's no _of course_ about it. Want to fill me in, then? At all? Over tea would be—what are you doing?"

Sherlock was off the sofa and across the room at John's side with a mere whisper of his silk gown. He grasped John's shoulder, turning him so they were face-to-face. "Say that again," he demanded, soft-voiced.

John opened his mouth and tried to recall what he had been saying. "While I get a cuppa, you fill me in—"

"No. Before that."

"I said you've not told me what—"

"Exactly as you said it, John."

John furrowed his brow in bewilderment, but repeated his previous sentence. "You haven't actually told me what you have planned for the day, Sherlock, so—"

Sherlock's fingers tightened on John's shoulder.

"—there's no of course..." John's voice slowed, trailed off. "Sherlock, what do you want—"

"Good," Sherlock nodded, his eyes dropping to John's mouth. "Again."

_What-? Oh. No…really?_ "Sherlock." John's eyes widened at Sherlock's slowly-indrawn breath. He was entirely uncertain as to whether or not he wanted to laugh. "I did say it last night, you know. I must have done."

"Mm," Sherlock made an absent sound of acknowledgement and bent forward. He pressed his ear to John's chest and waited.

John made his voice low and steady. "Sherlock."

Sherlock straightened again and slowly lowered his lips to John's. His eyes remained open, watching John's face as he moved in. He pressed a light kiss to John's mouth, open but soft and undemanding, experimental.

"Sherlock," John whispered into the kiss, and Sherlock's tongue flicked into his mouth to catch the breath he exhaled after the second syllable of his name.

John decided he definitely did not feel at all like laughing.

Somewhere in the back of his sensation-flooded mind, he had been wondering since last night whether he would be dealing with the same man this morning. He had only started getting to know_ Gabriel March_—albeit rather intensely and in unexpected ways—but who was _Sherlock Holmes_?

Apparently Sherlock Holmes shared at least one pleasing similarity with Gabriel March—he was still attracted to John Watson. And apparently he was also attracted to the sound of his own name. As behavioural quirks went, John had no complaint to make about either one at the moment.

He pressed himself up for a deeper kiss and his hands found their way to Sherlock's hair. "Sherlock," he murmured, this time for his own sake. An acknowledgement. He scrunched a handful of curls, pulled one out and let it spring back into its crescent shape. "I like it like this."

"Do you?" Sherlock pulled away from the kiss slowly and blinked at down at John, expression unreadable. Then he turned away and spoke as though nothing had interrupted their conversation. "I already told you. I'm waiting." He walked briskly back to the sofa and tipped himself onto the cushions, slouching into his prior position.

"Waiting." Off-balance yet again, John turned back to the dining table. "I thought you meant…waiting for me."

"_Without_ you. It was boring." Sherlock shut his eyes again.

"I see. That's what I'm helping with." He sighed and plucked the silver cover from the single plate waiting on the table. "Waiting." Toast, sides of strawberry jam and butter, and several strips of bacon. An exact duplicate of his choices from the previous morning. He stared at it for several moments. "Am I to assume you've already eaten?"

"If you like."

John sat heavily and ate in silence. It wasn't until he was finishing his last bite of toast that Sherlock spoke again.

"You're disappointed," he observed.

"No, it was very good," John replied gamely, knowing full well Sherlock wasn't talking about the breakfast any more than John was thinking of it. Yes, he was disappointed, but that was hardly Sherlock's fault, he supposed. Sherlock hadn't promised he'd be seeing _action_. He hadn't even suggested it. Wishful thinking. He should know better.

So. Another sitting down kind of day. It would be fine.

John poured a cup of tea and then, glancing over at Sherlock, a second cup and carried both to the sofa.

Sherlock swung his long legs to the floor to sit up to accept the tea and make room for John to sit down. "You were expecting something else?" He watched John out of the corner of his eye as John sat beside him. "More shopping, perhaps?"

John chuckled softly. "Uh, no. I guess…I thought…" He ducked his head for a sip of tea. "I don't know. Never mind."

Sherlock set his own tea down on the side table and tugged at his scarf with a frown, pulling it more snugly around his neck.

John crooked an eyebrow at him. "Glad you like it."

"It's warm." He tucked his chin down into the scarf defensively, one hand drifting up to tug at a strand of hair curling over his ear.

"If you're cold, we could have a fire."

Sherlock gave him a prim look. "That won't be necessary."

"Well," John leaned back with a sigh, "what are we waiting _for_, then?"

Sherlock wheeled around to lean against the arm of the sofa, frown clearing immediately. He pulled his knees to his chest and pressed the soles of his feet proprietarily against the side of John's thigh. "Two things. Clare Golynski will acquire Klein Pharma's _special_ orders list from her employer _tonight_ and arrange a meeting to transfer that information to her blackmailer. Ms Golynski and I have made an agreement she will contact me as to the time and location of that meeting."

John took another swallow of tea and dropped a hand to rest on the top of Sherlock's bare foot. "So we're going to be there, too? To stop it?" he asked hopefully.

"That I would be there was the original plan." Sherlock flexed and curled his toes against John's leg. "Not to stop it, but in the hope of finding out more about who was behind it. A long shot, but a worthwhile one."

"And the plan now?"

"Now that Detective Inspector _Lestrade_," Sherlock's nose crinkled with distaste, "has gotten some inkling of Ms Golynski's involvement, his surveillance of her will interfere with any positive outcome for that scenario. He may very likely apprehend the blackmailer and I cannot allow that to happen."

"You…want to keep him from being arrested so that you'll still be able to track down _his_ employer through him."

"Exactly."

"Wouldn't the police be able to find that out once they'd arrested him, though?"

Sherlock shot him a disparaging look.

"OK." John rested his cup on his other thigh. "What's the second thing?"

"A call. From Philip Spencer."

"Who is that?"

"The blackmailer."

John's tea cup bobbled precariously as he looked quickly up at Sherlock, who had a wickedly delighted little smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Are..._you_ being blackmailed?" John asked, bristling defensively even though Sherlock looked far from concerned.

"No. Spencer and I—or rather Spencer and _Gabriel March_—have an arrangement regarding…another matter."

John set his tea aside. "What matter?"

"He is coordinating Gabriel March's purchase of confidential information from another company. He'll be calling to arrange a meeting. An exchange between myself and the seller."

"So you're…his client."

"Yes."

"Confidential information. Like…the information Clare Golynski is handing over? I don't understand."

"Something like that," Sherlock said mildly.

John rubbed a hand through his hair. "Is this still to do with tracking down who he works for?"

"Philip Spencer facilitates high-level, high-risk information exchange. He provides neither the funding nor the information itself, but the connections are made through him. He's a go-between, but that's all he is. Someone else is pulling the strings, selecting the deals to arrange, and benefitting from the results."

"So you got yourself…Gabriel…in on one of these deals?" John's gaze drifted to his lap, unfocussed, as he considered the influx of new information. He tilted his head back up as a thought occurred. "Wait. Who is _your_ client?"

Sherlock's smile faded. "I don't have one."

"Don't detectives usually have a client?"

"I don't have one _anymore_."

"Then why are you still…" John watched Sherlock's expression become grim and guarded. "It's your brother, isn't it? Your brother was your client."

Sherlock nodded once. "It was he, through his own channels, who first realized the connection between a seemingly unrelated set of events. But he didn't have the time or the resources to pursue it. It was of interest to him, but only as a…minor curiosity."

John's fingers curled more firmly around Sherlock's foot, rubbed in a small, soothing circle. "So he hired you?"

Sherlock shook his head. "He thought I needed…I was…" He shook his head again, more vigorously, like he was trying to flick something out of his hair. "I wasn't interested. And now…it's important, John. It's important I finish this. Do you see?" He pressed his lips together, hard, and looked at John earnestly.

"Yeah." John stroked the arch of Sherlock's foot lightly, feeling the warmth of his skin against his palm. He thought of the army, of friends and strangers alike blown apart, shot, or just gone missing, and every one of them had plans. Simple or significant, for the evening, or the next day, or the next year, all those hopes and plans and stories lost in the sand, drifting away. "I do, actually."

They exchanged a long look.

"So we're waiting." John pushed himself up, standing, struck by a thought as to how to pass the time. "I'll be right back. Getting my laptop."

"What for?"

John licked his lips. Maybe he could, in his small way, preserve a few of those grains of sand. "I have an idea."

* * *

The door closed behind Mrs Hudson, departing the room with her silver trolley after having cleared away the dishes from John's dinner. John had successfully coaxed Sherlock into eating his chocolate parfait even after Sherlock had eaten half his portion of ginger chicken, and returned to his laptop looking vastly smug.

With the fire on for the evening, Sherlock was now warmed both inside and out and feeling uncomfortable with the sensation. He'd had to remove his scarf. It had lost its John-smell, anyway. He would have to find a way to reinfuse it. Perhaps John would sleep in it. He could easily picture it as an accessory to what was apparently his usual sleepwear, picture the ends of his grey-blond-brown hair brushing the blue cashmere, soft on soft.

He paced the room to ward off the feelings of contentment that threatened him. "Are you ready to hear about the engine formula yet?" he demanded, leaning across back of the sofa to frown over John's shoulder at the letters creeping agonizingly slowly across his computer screen.

"Not…yet…" John answered, tapping at a few more keys.

"I thought you said you could _type_," Sherlock accused.

John blinked up at him guilelessly, lifting his index fingers from the keyboard. "I _am_ typing."

"I'm getting _bored_, John."

He wasn't actually bored at all. Not really, not like he was _supposed_ to be after almost an entire day spent in the absence of acceptable stimuli. Three things made his brain sing: cocaine, music, and the work. Three things he could immerse himself in completely. Three things, at least for the moment, denied to him. Behind John's back, Sherlock's hand drifted to the crook of his elbow, remembering the bliss, however temporary, of _not-bored_.

Except he wasn't bored. Yet he wasn't _not-bored_. This was something new.

"You didn't have to go along with this, you know," John reminded him. "I told you, the blog is just an idea."

"No, it's…fine. Keep typing," Sherlock said quickly, "or whatever it is you call what you're doing." He'd been relating details of both his current case and several past cases alike to John throughout the day, pausing only for meals, tea, and John's irritating retreat to the bedroom to make a call to his sister. John's appreciation for his leaps of intellect had been gratifying enough that he hadn't even minded having to explain some of the deductions multiple times so John got the details right. "You really think people will be interested?"

"_I'm_ interested," John said matter-of-factly. "So, yes, I expect other people will be, too. But like I said, I can start the blog for you, and you can decide whether you want to keep it up. You know…document any other cases."

"Do you keep a blog?" Sherlock asked.

"Nope."

"Why not?"

"Because nothing happens to me," John said. "Now…almost done with this part…have you thought of what you'll call it?"

"The Science of Deduction," Sherlock announced with a flourish.

"Mm," John said drily, "that sounds riveting."

Sherlock glared at the back of John's head, but his intended retort was cut off when his mobile rang. John turned on to look at him, alert and expectant, as he pulled the phone from his dressing gown pocket. He checked the caller ID and nodded to John. "Spencer."

He let the Gabriel persona settle over him again and pressed the talk button. "Gabriel March."

"Hello, Gabriel!" Spencer's voice was treacle. Sherlock could almost see the leer. "It's all set. Friday night. The London Coliseum."

"The opera?" Sherlock asked with a glance at John, whose forehead crinkled.

"Why, I thought you'd enjoy the performance," Spencer said, all graciousness.

Sherlock turned away from John. "Mixing business with pleasure?"

"Of course. I've always been in favour of mixing business with pleasure, after all. I'm having a ticket sent to your hotel."

"Two tickets," Sherlock interjected.

Spencer was silent for a moment. "A date? Really, Gabriel, I'm _dreadfully_ jealous."

"There's no need," Sherlock said, chuckling. "A practical matter. I've had a minor injury. Minor but damned inconvenient, and my assistant has proven helpful. He's rather dull-witted, though, so I should be able to slip away easily." He turned to lift an eyebrow at John, who sent two fingers back at him. "And surely two attendees would be less…noticeable? I don't want to draw attention."

"You're too modest, Gabriel. A man like you would draw attention in any scenario."

"A predicament I'm sure you're familiar with as well. Philip."

"Oh, you _are_ such a delight," Spencer chuckled. "I am so looking forward to our…rendezvous."

"Our contact will meet us there?"

"She'll be there. You've no cause for concern. Just go to the bank and get ready, my dear. Then rest your pretty head and dream of your triumph. Morse's jugular is exposed and it's time for the kill."

Sherlock looked to John after he ended the call. "That's one." His skin prickled with energy.

John was giving him a curious, considering look. "Were you…flirting with him?"

"Don't be absurd, John. The man is a sociopath." Sherlock turned his face away as he dropped his phone on the table next to the sofa. He had, obviously, not related to John the little detail of Spencer's anticipated upcoming attempt on his life. He diverted his attention quickly, "How do you like the opera?"

John made a leery face. "Er, not very well so far. That's where this…exchange is taking place?"

"Apparently so. In two evenings' time." He'd been half-dreading the conclusion of this case, had almost considered that Spencer might beat him, given his troublingly distracted state of mind in the recent past. There was something about the _imminence_ of the danger that had already begun to work its magic. He could feel his blood start to thrum, feel his vision start to sharpen again.

"Two evenings. More waiting, then?" John stretched his back and rose from the sofa, grabbing his cane and empty cup to cross the room to the tea tray Mrs Hudson had left on the dining table.

"Not necessarily," said Sherlock, following John to the table and picking up a scone. He examined the pattern of tiny crevasses across its golden-brown surface before dropping it back on its plate. "Spencer will have chosen the opera house, that location, that time, for a _reason_." There was so much to be done in just two days' time. Why _that_ venue? Who was the contact from Morse? Was Spencer expecting to do away with them both together? How? He had neglected so many details, but now…_now_ it was time to perform.

"He likes the opera?" John asked lightly.

"John, can you fight?" Sherlock asked abruptly, pivoting toward him, pulse thumping.

John looked around the room. "And…who am I meant to fight?"

"I have to be certain you can take care of yourself."

John put his tea cup down carefully. "I can take care of myself."

Sherlock gave him a sceptical look. "You're a doctor."

"And a soldier," John reminded him tersely. He glanced down at his hand on the handle of the cane and tightened his grip.

Sherlock closed the short distance between them slowly. "Prove it."

"What are you doing?" John's eyes darkened as Sherlock pressed into his space.

He _did_ have to be certain, after all. He couldn't allow John to risk himself. And if he was already certain, _completely_ certain, that John was capable of defending himself, well… "I said _prove it_." With a sharp movement, he pulled the cane out of John's hand and threw it aside.

"What the hell? I don't want to hurt you," John warned. He had dropped his body weight, centred himself, relaxed into a ready stance automatically, Sherlock noted with approval.

"Try," Sherlock said darkly. He swung his left hand in a wide arc toward John, with no specific target but with sufficient speed and force that the intent to strike was clear.

His blow did not connect.

His right foot went out from under him and he felt an impact to his left shoulder. The ceiling swung into view, and his training in the fighting arts gusted from him in a loud _whuff_ of breath as he hit the floor. John straddled his thigh, one knee between his legs, pinning him even while one hand cradled Sherlock's right wrist from impact.

"Cane or no cane, I can still take you," he leaned over Sherlock's body and murmured close to his ear, his breath moist and warm, "_Sherlock_."

Oh. That was _cheating_. The name wasn't playing fair and John was changing the rules and _cheating_. Sherlock's eyes widened with appreciation. _Extraordinary_. "John," he breathed, pushing his hips up. Four things. Four things could make his brain sing. His _skin_ sing. "You understand."

"Next time you try a stunt like that, it's your nose." John growled, eyes alight, and leaned in further to kiss him, hard.

_And wonderful_. Sherlock reached for the bottom of John's jumper, tugging at it to get to the skin underneath. John released his wrist and reached in between their bodies, targeting Sherlock's trousers for removal. Sherlock hitched his hips again and pressed himself shamelessly into John's palm.

John laughed into the side of his neck, kissed. "Keen, are we?"

"Move your hand, John," Sherlock insisted, yanking John's vest free from his jeans. And there, _skin_, at last.

"Bedroom," John replied, his voice catching in between a growl and a giggle. His eyes were warm, confident.

"Too far. Here." Sherlock wriggled his hips against John's frustratingly-still hand.

"What if Mrs Hudson—"

"She won't," Sherlock assured him, straining up to nip at the John's neck. "John, will you sleep in the scarf?"

There was a knock at the door.

John froze, staring in horror toward the entryway. "You have _got_ to be joking," he gasped.

"Buggering fucking bugger!" Sherlock snarled, which John seemed to find amusing enough to drop his head and giggle insanely into Sherlock's chest. "GO AWAY!" he bellowed.

The knock repeated, more insistently.

John rolled off him, gorgeously flushed and laughing, and Sherlock groaned his despair. "Bedroom. Go. I'll get rid of her," John assured him.

Sherlock righted himself and strode uncomfortably into the bedroom, fumbling impatiently at the buttons on his shirt.

"Not _now_, Mrs Hudson," he heard John call out, and then the sound of the suite door opening and, "Oh."

"Mr…Watson, was it? I need to see him." Detective Inspector Lestrade's voice was low and fatigued, but firm. "There's been a development."


	8. Chapter 8

**IL TRAVIATO**

**Chapter Eight**

* * *

"Detective Inspector Lestrade," John announced in a voice he hoped would carry into the bedroom to Sherlock.

"I need to speak with…Gabriel. Right away." Lestrade's jaw was set with determination, but he also looked haggard.

John sighed away visions of dark curls bouncing against white sheets. "I suppose you'd better come in, then. _Sherlock_," he called. Lestrade gave him a sharp, surprised look as he walked past into the suite. This time he'd brought a whole _set_ of file folders, and he shuffled them in his hands restlessly as John waved him toward the sitting area.

Several moments later, Sherlock strode through the doorway from the bedroom, glaring magnificently. He had replaced his dressing gown with a suit jacket and his flush of passion with a haughty sneer. "I thought I made my lack of interest in your concerns clear last night, Inspector," he clipped out. "Why are you here?"

Lestrade glanced at John. "I think we should speak alone."

"Anything you have to say, you can say in front of Dr Watson." Sherlock gestured John firmly toward the sofa.

Lestrade's brows rose. "Really?" He stared openly at John while he took his seat.

Sherlock frowned, following Lestrade's speculative gaze. "What?"

"It's just that Mycroft said…you didn't have any…that you don't have…" He looked back and forth between John and Sherlock.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "I don't have _what_?"

"Never mind. It doesn't matter." He took a breath, collecting himself. "There's been a disappearance, possibly an abduction."

"So?" Sherlock shrugged his blatant disinterest and then turned to John and said through clenched teeth, "_Why_ did you let him _in_?"

"For God's sake, will you at least just _listen_?" Lestrade's voice rose, sharp with desperation. "Just…_listen_."

"Sherlock," John said quietly.

Sherlock glanced at John's solemn expression and exhaled a frustrated sigh. He seated himself with painstaking grace onto the sofa next to John and crossed one leg over the other in a languid pose, casting Lestrade a painfully bored look. "Please, _do_ proceed to fascinate me, Inspector."

While Lestrade settled himself into the burgundy chair opposite, pulling the padded ottoman over to spread out his file folders, John brushed his fingertips surreptitiously against Sherlock's leg in a gesture of approval at his concession. Sherlock pretended not to notice the touch.

Lestrade opened a folder to a copy of a security badge photo of a man who looked to be in his mid-thirties, dark-haired and wearing an uncomfortable, shy half-smile. John thought him just on the pleasant side of average-looking but for large, soulful brown eyes that gave his face a compelling magnetism.

Lestrade pressed a finger to the photo. "This is Richard Brook. He disappeared from his flat early this morning."

Sherlock's eyes brushed across the photo and back up to Lestrade's face. "You said possibly an abduction."

"Yeah, he had a date sleeping over. She called it in. Woke up to what sounded like a struggle in the outer room, heard a shout, but didn't see anything. Brook was gone by the time she came out of the bedroom. Door to the flat left open, chair overturned."

"How dreadful," Sherlock sighed, clearly unimpressed. John thought he could detect a subtle sharpening of interest in his eyes, though, which had drifted back to the ID photo. "And what does any of this have to do with me?"

Lestrade's heel started to thump against the floor, a tattoo of nervous energy, and he looked at Sherlock intently. "I think…I might be mad, but…Clare Golynski," he raked a hand through his greying hair, "I think there's a connection."

Sherlock raised his chin slowly. "I'm listening."

Lestrade brought to the front of his stack of papers a gruesome photo of what had once been a young woman. What remained of her torn and filthy clothing was a black vinyl miniskirt, a red lace bra, and one red stiletto-heeled shoe. She was fair-skinned and quite thin, but her body was bloated, the visible flesh striped with dark purple welts. "Marie Watts, 26 years old. Her body was discovered last week in a skip in King's Cross."

"A…prostitute?" John asked, eyeing the woman's injuries with a thick swallow of sympathy.

"A clinical research scientist. At Klein Pharmaceuticals. Reporting, indirectly, to Clare Golynski." Lestrade sat back and gave Sherlock a significant look.

Sherlock waved Lestrade on.

"Klein Pharmaceuticals." Lestrade rifled through another folder, pulled out a sheet of paper. "Bering Tech. Rubicon. Corporations rumoured to be on the verge of making or already having made significant technological or research breakthroughs."

"Yes. I read the papers," Sherlock said dismissively.

"Yeah, _and_," Lestrade moved the photo of Marie Watts' body and spread out several sets of papers clipped together along with photographs, "each one has _also_ recently had an employee turn up dead."

"These are large organizations, in most cases, Inspector." Sherlock leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees to look at the photos. "People die. The odds that some of them worked at these corporations are hardly low."

"No. No, they aren't. And the causes of death have all been different. Marie Watts, tarted up, whipped, and suffocated. David Theophanus, tortured to death in his garden shed, Clarissa Finch, flayed alive in a restaurant kitchen. The only similarities have been that each of the crime scenes has ultimately given us fuck all by way of leads and that," Lestrade took a deep breath, "_every one_ of these people had access in some way to confidential information at their companies."

Sherlock eased himself back in his seat, assessing Lestrade through half-lowered lids.

"And," John ventured, "you think this Richard Brook is the next victim?" He slid his gaze to Sherlock, waiting for his reaction, uncertain of how this all fit into the details Sherlock had shared with him, or with what he had planned as Gabriel March.

Lestrade pointed at the security badge photo again. "Richard Brook works in IT at Morse Industries, who are touting some kind of new body armour under development. I…it's a hunch. Right now, that's all it is but…it's not a coincidence. It _can't_ be."

"It _could_ be," Sherlock said.

"It isn't, though, is it?" Lestrade held his breath, waiting for Sherlock to respond.

Finally Sherlock flicked an eyebrow up and pulled one corner of his mouth into a half-smile. "Probably not."

Relief lit Lestrade's face so blatantly that John felt a rush of empathy with the man, and exhaled his own expectantly-held breath.

Lestrade leaned forward intently. "Will you help?"

Sherlock assumed a magnanimous expression. "Of course. How could I refuse?"

Lestrade raised his eyebrows. "Pretty easily, from what I've seen of you so far. But… thank you. Really. So what can you tell me?"

"I assume you've been through Brook's flat?" Sherlock scooped the folders up from the ottoman and began rapidly sorting through them, discarding papers haphazardly onto the floor as he deemed the majority of Lestrade's careful notes unworthy of his attention.

"I took a look myself this afternoon, on my own time," he shrugged, "but it's not even an official disappearance yet. I don't have the time or the resources to allocate."

"Mm, that's been happening a lot. They always stay just under the radar."

"Who does?" Lestrade frowned as he leaned over to pick up a file folder that had landed atop his shoe. "And what do you mean _happening a lot_?"

"So you're hoping I'll visit the flat, I assume?" Sherlock sniffed, thumbing through the last folder in his stack, the one on Richard Brook.

"That's exactly what I was hoping," Lestrade addressed Sherlock, followed by a grunt of thanks to John, who had bent down to help him retrieve the scattered papers.

John gave him a small but supportive smile in return, feeling responsible—and just a bit smug—for Sherlock's new willingness to assist, as he handed over the files he'd collected.

"If I've missed anything there, from what I've heard about your eye for detail, _you_ won't." Lestrade straightened and continued, "I was also hoping—"

"—my involvement with Clare Golynski's blackmail would yield information useful to your investigation, yes. I'm afraid I'll have to disappoint you there, Detective Inspector. I know little more than you seem to know at this point."

John blinked at the casual lie.

"We still have her under surveillance," Lestrade said. "We think we'll be getting a look at her blackmailer soon, but if there's a connection to Brook's abductor, it may be too late by then to do us any good in helping him."

"I'd suggest you continue in that effort, Inspector," Sherlock directed. "Although I doubt the blackmail is directly connected to the murders. From what I've gleaned from Ms Golynski, she's simply a woman living beyond her means and not burdened by scruples in the matter of attaining additional cash. That one of her employees has turned up dead may be the one happy coincidence in your case files."

Lestrade peered down at his folders, looking confused. "But—"

John bit down on his lip, equally confused.

"Detective Inspector, as delighted as I'd be to discuss the finer points, is this really the time? As you have been fond of pointing out, a man's life may be at stake. Time is of the essence." Sherlock stood and gave his suit jacket a tug for emphasis.

Following his lead, Lestrade rose as well. "I have a car waiting."

Sherlock nodded toward the file he had kept as he moved to shepherd Lestrade toward the door with a hand to his back. "Brook's address is there. We'll follow shortly."

"Thank you," Lestrade said, turning at the door with a little bow and a small smile of gratitude.

After the Detective Inspector had taken his leave, John turned to Sherlock, spreading his hands in appeal and unable to keep the accusation out of his voice. "You _know_ who the blackmailer is, you said. Why did you lie? Why didn't you tell him about Philip Spencer?"

"All in good time, John," Sherlock said, retrieving his coat from the entry cupboard and tossing John's new bomber jacket at him.

"But," John shrugged into the jacket as he spoke, "if this poor sod's life is in danger, why would you hold something like that back?"

Sherlock shot an enormous, lopsided smile over his shoulder at John, and in spite of his misgivings, John felt his heart flip over. "Doctor, your ethics are showing again."

"Sherlock, not wanting a man to die is not a…_remarkable_ display of ethics, it's the _proper amount_ of ethics." John pulled on his gloves. "Wait...what's the name of that company that you're meant to be buying information from?"

"Richard Brook's life is not in danger, John. I _promise_ you that." On the table beside the sofa, Sherlock's phone chimed. He crossed the room and plucked it up, looked at the screen, and smiled again. "Lestrade's not as stupid as I thought. He hasn't got the whole story, and he's come to the wrong conclusions, but he's not stupid. He sees the connections, he just hasn't been able to draw the lines in yet."

"So you…_do_ think there's a connection? You said there wasn't one."

"Of _course_ there's a connection." Sherlock's voice was gleefully impatient. "Hurry _up_, John."

"I'm coming…going…Jesus," John barely managed to grab his cane as Sherlock propelled him toward the door.

"Wait!" Sherlock cried.

John almost stumbled. "You said _hurry_!"

Sherlock disappeared into the bedroom and returned clutching his new blue scarf, which he placed around John's neck, tucking it into his coat collar awkwardly with his left hand. "There," he nodded firmly, beaming down at his handiwork. "Ready?" he asked, completely contradictorily.

_Mad_. John looked up into Sherlock's manically bright eyes, and thrills chased through his body. "You're certain? About Richard Brook. Not in danger."

"Absolutely certain," Sherlock confirmed.

"You'll explain, then, on the way?"

Sherlock smiled.

* * *

Their destination was not far, and it was easy—and extremely pleasurable—to distract John from tedious explanations with a vigorous snogging during the taxi ride. Before they'd left the room, John's pulse had already been up, his cheeks already flushed. If there weren't work to be done, Sherlock would have had him back on the floor, hearing his name in John's ragged gasps and moans. Even as John made little noises into his mouth now, Sherlock's body stirred in response, a low hum of contentment under the symphony of his thoughts. Finally, _finally_, his brain was making music again.

He kissed John harder, sliding a hand along his thigh, along the leg that pained him. _Psychosomatic. I can fix that._ _I can fix everything._

The driver cleared her throat significantly, breaking their mutual absorption. The taxi had come to a halt some moments ago.

"We're here," Sherlock said against John's mouth. He was pleased at the number of blinks it took John to focus on their surroundings once more.

"Sorry," John directed a sheepish grin at the cabbie, who responded with a vaguely amused _oh-I've-seen-much-worse_ eye roll as Sherlock paid the fare.

The night's chill travelled down Sherlock's spine as they stepped onto the pavement. It had stopped raining, but the air still felt damp. The smells of the street were amplified—exhaust fumes, curry, stale beer, soapy cologne, coffee, metal—delicious and repulsive, vibrant and _alive_. He drew in a long, greedy breath through his nose.

John shivered, leaning on his cane while he looked at the buildings on their side of the street. "Which one's Brook's?"

"None of them." Sherlock checked the building numbers and headed for the one marked 98, four storeys of white brick set over a kitchen wares shop. He smiled at John. "We have another stop to make first."

Inside, he made his way, with John trailing behind on the stairs, to the top storey and knocked on the door of the flat marked C. "Miss Hooper, it's all right. It's the police."

"What—" John spoke behind him and Sherlock waved a quieting hand by his side.

The door opened.

Molly Hooper's eyes were red-rimmed and wide with apprehension. She clutched a ruffled lavender cardigan tightly around her small frame. Her long brown hair was tangled near the ends—she'd been worrying it for some time.

Sherlock pulled Lestrade's police badge from his coat pocket and flashed it at her. As anticipated, she barely glanced at it. "Detective Inspector Edwards, Miss Hooper. We're sorry to bother you at this hour, but DI Lestrade asked me to have a word with you."

Her eyes shifted nervously between Sherlock and John several times before locking on Sherlock's. "DI Lestrade sent you?" She sniffled and blinked.

Since the Inspector's name seemed to give her some small measure of reassurance, Sherlock repeated it. "Yes, DI Lestrade. He's hard at work on the case, but there are a few more questions we need to ask you. May we come in?"

"I…yes, I suppose so," she smiled shakily and stepped back to allow them entry.

Sherlock swept an assessing glance over her flat. Untidy but not unclean. Softly-lit. She lived alone. Family photos on the bookshelves—parents, probably dead, their pictures were all at least ten years old, judging by their hair and clothes. Sister in Australia. Socks under the sofa. Surfaces scattered with romance novels and science journals. Stack of DVDs by the telly, dramas, romantic comedies. A black dress crumpled in a heap in the seat of one armchair—her discarded date dress. Her phone and a small pile of dampened tissues rested on the coffee table along with a mug of tea, still steaming slightly.

She drew two deep breaths in an effort to collect herself, and achieved only a marginal success. Still skittish. Most likely an aspect of her usual personality—people tended to amplify their natural tendencies under stress. He stole a glance at John, who was glowering at him in silence next to one of Molly Hooper's pink and green flowered armchairs.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade was very kind to me this morning," she said. "I told him everything I could remember. I didn't see anything, you know, so I'm not sure what more I can tell you."

_Lie._

"Do have a seat, Miss Hooper," Sherlock gestured her to the chair closest him, and she sat dutifully, hands clasped tightly in her lap. "What time did you get the call?"

Her face paled visibly. "What call?"

"The call from Richard Brook's kidnapper," Sherlock said calmly. In his peripheral vision he saw John's posture shift into alertness.

"How did you know?" Her voice had dropped to a halting whisper. "He _said_ don't call the police again. I _didn't_."

"It's all right, Miss Hooper." Sherlock dropped to one knee, gentling his manner and reducing the influence of his height. This one didn't seem to need the additional intimidation. "You've done nothing wrong. We know you received the call. We know what they want you to do."

"You do?"

"Morse Industries' new aramid synthetic? You're to acquire the specifications."

"And a sample," she added, nodding, already eager to unburden herself of secrets.

"You can do it?"

"Yes," she breathed, wide-eyed.

"Good," Sherlock rumbled approval at her. "Very good.

"Are…you _want_ me to do it?"

Sherlock nodded gravely. "Until we have a better lead on the kidnapper, we think it best you proceed as instructed. Did your caller provide proof of life?"

"The picture?" she asked, then leaned over to get her phone. Her face grew even more pinched as she brought up a photo. She flipped the screen toward Sherlock.

"May I?" He held out his hand and she placed the phone in it. As John leaned in to get a better look, Sherlock examined the photo closely—a man, tied to a plain wooden chair, head lolling to one side, in a mostly-darkened room. A weak overhead light source illuminated a face that was clearly Richard Brook's, just as he appeared in his Morse Industries ID photo, with the addition of a copious amount of blood on his face and white vest.

Sherlock only remembered at the last moment not to laugh.

He forwarded the photo to his own mobile before returning Miss Hooper's phone to her hand.

"Do you think he'll…get through this?" she asked, staring at the picture, her forehead creased with worry.

"Yes, it must be difficult to see someone you—" Sherlock glanced once more at the array of romance novels. _Sentiment_. "—_love_ in such a state, but we're hopeful, Miss Hooper. We're all very hopeful." He stood, looking toward the door. They would still have to go by Brook's flat, he supposed, to maintain the illusion for Lestrade.

"I…don't love him," she said in an odd tone.

Sherlock brought his attention back to her. Some colour had returned to her cheeks. "Care for him," he amended, brow creasing.

"It was only our third date. I…I was going to break it off. It…wasn't working."

"Then why—" Sherlock began, confused. _Why would you care so much what happens to him? _He glanced past her to John, who was watching her with an inexplicable look of understanding. Sherlock frowned. "Then…we…nevertheless, we'll need to ask you to continue going through the motions of meeting the kidnapper's demands, following his instructions. Mr Brook will be safe from any serious harm as long as you do."

Molly nodded resolutely. "If that's what needs to be done."

He jerked his head toward the door, signalling John. "We'll be in touch soon, Miss Hooper."

Once back on the pavement outside, Sherlock allowed himself to unfurl from his impression of humble, hard-working police officer. A wide grin spread across his face. He felt like dancing. "John, you did well. Really well."

He turned and, yes, John was still behind him. He didn't look quite as happy as Sherlock felt.

"That poor girl," he said grimly.

"What? Oh. Molly Hooper. Yes. Terrible." He wanted to tell John about the picture of Richard Brook, because it was Christmas. _Christmas_.

John frowned. "What do you mean I _did well_? I didn't do _anything_. I didn't say a word."

"Exactly," Sherlock said pleasantly. "It's best you say as little as possible."

"Fantastic, thanks a lot. What would I even say anything about? I've no idea what the hell you're doing. Where did you get that badge?"

"I…acquired it from Lestrade at the hotel. Thought it might come in handy. And don't be like that, I simply mean that you're a poor liar."

John scowled. "I'm _not_…what makes you even think that? You think I've lied to you?"

"Yes." Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "This morning."

"What?"

"You said you weren't disappointed with me." The pang Sherlock felt when he said it aloud took him completely by surprise, dampening his euphoria. He closed his hand around the phone in his pocket, with its image of Richard Brook, bloody and bowed._ It's not real. He's an actor. I know why we're going to the opera. Look, John. It's just stage make-up. Look at me._

"No." John drew his head back slightly. His mouth opened, closed, opened again. "Yes."

Sherlock took the mobile from his pocket.

"Yes, I _was_ disappointed, Sherlock, but not _with you_. I just thought…when you asked me to help you…you meant something more than…" He trailed off, shrugging, and looked down at his feet.

"You're still disappointed," Sherlock said. A fact. An inevitability.

John raised his eyes again. "I thought when you asked me to help, you meant something more than _watching_ you play whatever game it is you're playing."

_But that does help._

"I want to believe we're doing something useful here. I want to trust you. God knows why. I see," John gestured toward Molly Hooper's flat, "I see that _you_ are a _good_ liar. I'm confused as hell, but I'm not an idiot, Sherlock."

Sherlock pushed the phone back into his pocket. He would save it. He would save the photo for when John might be a bit more appreciative of how the end justified the means. "We need to move on to Brook's flat. Lestrade will wonder what's keeping us." They would find nothing there, of course. Sherlock turned to look for a taxi.

John seized Sherlock's coat lapel and started to pull.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock said, startled but allowing himself to be manoeuvred.

"Come here," John muttered, hauling him toward the alcove doorway of a shop closed for the night. When they reached the doorway, John took a step backward onto the entry step so that his back was against the door, bringing his height just above Sherlock's. He kept his fist curled into Sherlock's coat and, leaning his cane against the wall, thrust his other hand in Sherlock's hair, pulling his head back.

Sherlock felt heat flow to his groin, the same burn he'd felt pinned to the floor of their hotel room. _Manhandled_.

"Kiss me," John ordered, with no answering signs of arousal.

Sherlock looked into John's stern face and complied immediately, leaning into him, wrapping an arm around his shoulder. Their lips met.

John's kiss was deep and searching.

"Tell me I can trust you," he said roughly against Sherlock's mouth.

"You can trust me," Sherlock repeated John's words.

John kissed him again. "Tell me you're going to help these people."

"_We're_ going to help," Sherlock said, because John wanted to help.

John pulled him closer, as close together as their coats would allow them to be. "You can't lie with your body," he murmured into Sherlock's ear, letting his teeth graze Sherlock's jaw. "Tell me again."

_Oh, John. Of course you can._

He tilted his head up and pressed into John's kiss.


	9. Chapter 9

**IL TRAVIATO**

**Chapter Nine**

* * *

"Polo?" John asked dubiously.

"A charity match. Last one of the season," Sherlock explained, focussed on wrangling his wayward curls into Gabriel March's slicked-back style. His wrist was freshly bandaged and he was dressed in a crisp white button-up and suit trousers.

John leaned against the bathroom door, watching the grooming process with mild amusement. He pointed at an escaped tendril. "You've missed a bit just there."

Sherlock frowned intently at his reflection, combing and patting the renegade into place.

"I take it we're not attending this event for fun," John said, folding his arms, "or are you a fan?"

"Not especially, no," Sherlock smirked. "We still have to prevent Clare Golynski's encounter with Spencer. Or, more accurately, _Lestrade's_ encounter with Spencer. According to the text Ms Golynski sent me last night, they're to meet at this match for the exchange. Lestrade and his team will have her under surveillance."

"Why couldn't you have just told her not to show up?"

"Because Spencer needs to see her there. It's vital he does not doubt her intentions."

"And we still can't have Lestrade pick him up," nodded John. "Because we don't want justice done _quite_ yet, right?"

"Sarcasm doesn't suit you, John," Sherlock said, casting a sideways glance at him.

John chuckled. "Yes, it does. Better than…that new suit." He was making an effort to keep his tone light this morning, but his concerns were still present. He felt on edge, watchful, and he knew Sherlock sensed his continued unease. He had made no advances last night when they returned to the suite after visiting Richard Brook's flat, had retired wordlessly to the sitting room once John had undressed and gone to bed, had let John sleep in undisturbed.

"You understand, though."

"Nope," John shook his head. "Not really. But I _am_ trusting you. For now."

"For now," Sherlock raised a questioning eyebrow. "Until when?"

"Just…for now," John repeated firmly.

Sherlock turned from the mirror and gave John a searching look. "You could…would you like to _test_ me again?" he invited cautiously. He took a small step toward John. His raised hand hovered hopefully over John's shoulder but did not alight.

It was disconcerting—Sherlock's face in Gabriel March's costume—and strange how they really did look like two different men to John now, subtle as the differences were. He wondered how he hadn't seen the transitions before, because it had not been Gabriel March he kissed that first night. It had not been Gabriel March he slept next to. John uncrossed his arms and opened them in silent invitation.

Sherlock stepped into his embrace with a sigh, sliding the palm of his hand over the soft lamb's wool of John's olive green jumper and down his back. His kiss did in fact taste distinctly of mint, and John explored it with interest, enjoying the contrast of the cool flavour with the slow, warm slide of Sherlock's tongue. It was easy to fall into one of those kisses. So easy. So easy to stop thinking and just feel and fall. But when Sherlock's breath hitched and he started to press his body in closer, more urgently, John pulled away.

Sherlock tilted toward him, looking a little lost. "John?"

"You're very good at that, you know?" John ran his thumb over Sherlock's lower lip.

"Then we should do it again," Sherlock murmured thickly. "And again."

John moved his hand to Sherlock's chest, holding him at bay and lowering his eyes. He raised his other arm and looked at his watch, just to have something to look at besides Sherlock. "What time do we need to leave?"

"John." Sherlock reached out to brush his fingers through John's hair, his voice dropping.

"I heard Mrs Hudson bring in breakfast earlier, didn't I?"

Sherlock let his hand fall by his side. "Yes."

John looked up at Sherlock's face and caught a glimpse of strain, replaced during the blink of John's eyes with a neutral expression. He wasn't sure exactly when he had started thinking of those unusual, angular features as _beautiful_—perhaps from the first look or perhaps it had taken an hour or two—but he didn't think he could see them any other way now. Even when they took on the cool look of a mask, Gabriel's face hiding the animation and passion John now knew was Sherlock's, the beauty remained.

He had to look away. Just for a moment.

"Are you wearing a tie today?"

A little line of frustration appeared between Sherlock's eyebrows at the mundane question. "Yes. Of course."

With a sigh, John reached out and squeezed his arm reassuringly. "Come on, then…Gabriel. I'll help you put it on."

* * *

"I don't have to know anything about polo, do I?" John muttered to Sherlock as they approached a row of white tables, chairs, and canopy tents. The day was crisp and clear with the sharp smell of the turn of the season. The players were warming their mounts up on the field, which was separated from the spectator area by a white picket fence.

"Most of these people are here to look at one another," Sherlock informed him, "not the match. So, no. You'll fit right in."

John peered into the crowd, noting a lot of cream-coloured trousers, wine glasses, and not a few oversized hats. He glanced down at his clothing. He'd added a light brown herringbone blazer over his green jumper and tan trousers, which had all seemed a bit formal in comparison with his usual attire for a sporting event, but—yes—he _would_ fit in here, at least by appearance. "Do you see anyone yet? What does this Spencer look like?"

"Tall, athletic," he gestured toward his head, "wavy blond hair, gold wire-rimmed glasses."

"Hm, tall, athletic, blond…that actually describes half the men here," John observed, looking around. "I've clearly been pulling from the wrong sort of places."

Sherlock gave him a displeased look.

John grinned up at him, feeling a little lighter in the sunlight and brisk air. "This week, though, it's tall, dark, and deranged for me. Doesn't hurt if he can play a bit of violin."

"Pity, that last," Sherlock said, raising his injured wrist. "I'm not to play for a while. Doctor's orders."

"Who said I was talking about you?"

The corner of Sherlock's mouth quirked up. "Deranged?"

John nodded. "That was the giveaway, wasn't it?"

"I understand your vocabulary is very limited, John. I believe you meant debonair."

"Demented."

"Dynamic."

"Dreadful."

"Discerning. Distinctive. _Dazzling_."

"Bit of a dick."

Sherlock started to giggle, but his smile slid away abruptly. "I see Clare Golynski."

John followed Sherlock's gaze past a well-attended drinks tent to a table set in the shade of an elm tree. A dark-haired woman in oversized sunglasses sat bundled up in a long, fur-trimmed black coat that had to be too warm for the day. A black satchel rested in the chair next to her.

As they passed through the part of the crowd nearest her, Sherlock offered her a barely perceptible nod. John thought he saw her chin tilt down just a fraction in response. He scanned tables within line-of-sight of Clare Golynski's until he spotted silvery hair. "There's Lestrade," he whispered. "No sign of your Spencer?"

Sherlock did another visual sweep. "Not yet. I'll keep watch for him—you go to Lestrade. If anything goes wrong—"

"I know, keep him distracted," John nodded confirmation of his simplistically straightforward mission.

"Throw him onto the field if you have to," Sherlock instructed, "just don't let him get anywhere near Spencer."

"Yeah, I think I can manage it without having the man trampled to death," said John dryly. "I actually _like_ him. Go on, then. You know where I'll be."

Sherlock moved away into the milling stream of spectators, and John turned and headed for Lestrade's table.

"Detective Inspector. Hello," John greeted Lestrade affably. "May I join you?"

Lestrade glanced up at him and smiled. "John, hello. Yeah, have a seat. We're still waiting, obviously. Sherlock around here somewhere?"

"I'm actually here with Gabriel," John said pointedly. He took a seat next to Lestrade, selecting a chair where he also had a clear view of Clare Golynski's table as well as a good view of the crowd.

"Oh, right," Lestrade winced a little. "_Gabriel_."

John _did_ like DI Lestrade. He liked the way he'd dealt with Sherlock when they'd met at the restaurant, his respectful-but-take-no-shit attitude. He liked that, in spite of being an apparently competent professional, he was willing to humble himself to ask for help when he needed it in order to help someone else in turn. He liked that Lestrade really seemed to _care_ beyond duty about the people whose photographs and statistics were flattened into his case files. And on top of it all, he just seemed a nice bloke, really. _This_ was the sort of person John should fall for—someone open, someone who said what they meant and meant what they said.

Not that he was falling for anyone.

No, he liked Lestrade, but that was all. Apparently he hadn't really been joking when he described his type to Sherlock. At least…not this week. Demented and angular, full of dark corners and trap doors, some sort of mysterious, melodramatic…bastard. _Dangerous_. _Dramatic. Deceitful_.

Yeah, that was his type, all right. Good on him. John sighed.

"Everything…okay?" Lestrade was giving John an odd look.

John blinked. "Yeah, fine. Good. Really good. Sher…Gabriel, yeah, he's here. You know, lurking. He didn't think Ms Golynski should see you with him." He really was starting to lose track of what he was and wasn't supposed to say to whom. Sherlock was probably right—it was best he said as little as possible. "But of course he's ready to move in and, er, assist when the blackmailer shows up. Any…signs so far?"

Lestrade gave a glum shrug. "Nothing yet. If he could sodding well get a move on, I'd really appreciate it, though. I want to get back to this Richard Brook business."

"Yeah." John suddenly wished he had a drink. He glanced wistfully at the drinks tent, but it was still looking overrun. He didn't like withholding information from Lestrade. He was, as far as John could tell, one of the good guys. What were he and Sherlock, then? "Anything else happening there?"

"Nothing. No sign of his whereabouts." Lestrade chewed on the inside of his lip for a moment. "I really thought Sherlock would find something at the flat."

Sherlock had said it was _well-staged_ and then offered no further explanation of the comment. "I wish he had," John commiserated.

"Well. If he didn't find anything, there was nothing to find. His brother once said that Sherlock definitely has his own methods, but that he's a brilliant investigator. I'm grateful he's come round to helping out."

John scrubbed at a non-existent spot on the table with his finger. "I think you both want the same things," he finally offered in an attempt to say something truthful.

Lestrade cast him a sidelong glance. "Oh yeah? And what is it Sherlock wants?"

"To...catch the…bad guys, of course."

"That's not what his brother thought."

"No? What did his brother think?"

"That it's all a game to him, a competition. Sherlock versus the Puzzle. Willing to do anything to win, and hell with everything and everyone else. Nothing to do with what's right or wrong."

John frowned. "You told him his brother was proud of him. That…doesn't sound like pride."

Lestrade chuckled quietly. His eyes took on a distant look. "Maybe not at first, but, well, you didn't know Mycroft. He was willing to do anything to win, too. The difference was that to _him_, there was no _everything and everyone else_. It was all connected, and none of it was a game. I think he was proud of Sherlock because…because..." He trailed off, apparently searching for words for a sentiment never fully expressed. A sentiment that now never would be.

John leaned in, eager for the rest of Lestrade's words when he found them.

The DI shook his head. "Mycroft told me that when they were kids—well, when Sherlock was kid—he taught him to play Go. You know, that strategy game."

John raised his eyebrows and nodded. "Yeah. I've played one or twice. I'm rubbish, though."

"Anyway, Mycroft said the first few times they played, when it went badly for Sherlock he would upset the table, knock the little stones across the room, just throw some sort of fit."

"That sounds like something he might do, yeah."

"And each time, the next day, Mycroft would find the board reset with the pieces all exactly as they last were, and Sherlock waiting to play. That's…that's why he was proud."

"Because he remembered the board? That's quite impressive. Especially for a kid."

"No, Mycroft would have expected that," smirked Lestrade.

"Then because…he wouldn't give up?"

"He wouldn't. He won't. I'm not sure he _can_. At least…according to his brother."

"Well, you did say Mycroft was never wrong."

"Yeah, I never knew him to be…" Lestrade gave John one of his curious looks. "But then he also said Sherlock couldn't have friends."

John blinked and leaned back into his chair, pensive, as the first chukker of the match started.

* * *

"What's wrong?" Sherlock hissed as he grabbed Philip Spencer's arm, pulling him out of the crowd. "Something's gone wrong, hasn't it?"

To Sherlock's gratification, Spencer looked utterly shocked by Gabriel March's sudden appearance.

"Of course it has. Of course," Sherlock fretted, letting his voice rise into a near-wail. "Why else would you be here?" He gulped, clutching at his hair and tugging. "Oh, God. I'm ruined. I'm absolutely _buggered_ if this deal doesn't go through, Philip. Do you hear me?"

"_Everyone_ can hear you, March." Spencer snapped as he grabbed Sherlock's injured arm, and Sherlock let out a not-entirely-feigned yelp. Spencer frowned, looking down and noting the bandage around Sherlock's wrist. His hand tightened and twisted. "Shut your mouth _now_."

Sherlock found himself being dragged, leaning sideways to alleviate some of the pressure on his wrist, backward into the space between an empty spectator tent and a tree at the fringe of the crowd. "Philip, I'm injured!" he whined.

Spencer pulled him in close enough for Sherlock to smell faint traces of salmon and hollandaise on his breath. "Gabriel, darling," he said in a soft, sing-song voice, "do tell me what you're doing here."

"We're here for the match, of course." Sherlock wrinkled his nose to emphasize the absurdity of the question, then fluttered Gabriel's eyelashes in bafflement. "You mean…you aren't…you're here for the match too?"

The pressure on his wrist eased slightly, but Spencer's clear hazel eyes were still pinned on Sherlock's face. "Well. This is quite the coincidence." His smile glittered.

"Damn it, Philip, you…may I have my hand back?"

Spencer uncurled his fingers reluctantly.

Sherlock rubbed his wrist and settled Gabriel's features into a supercilious frown. "You did rather alarm me," he huffed, and squinted suspiciously at Spencer. "You had no idea I would be here?"

"None whatsoever, I assure you. And—" he held up a hand to forestall any further expressions of angst from Gabriel "—everything is _fine_, we are on schedule for tomorrow evening."

"Good. Excellent. I'm glad to hear it."

Spencer glanced at his wristwatch—TAG Heuer, Sherlock noted—and the corners of his mouth tightened. "Yes, splendid. Gabriel, I _am_ scheduled to meet another acquaintance, so-"

"A date?" Sherlock interjected Gabriel's attempt, a poor flirtation, at recovering from his gaffe. "Should I be jealous?"

"There's no need," Spencer smirked, eyes crinkling with false humour. "Business. You know how it is." He paused and tilted his head inquisitively. The sun filtering through the trees struck gold highlights on his blond hair. "Who is _we_?"

Sherlock frowned his puzzlement. "Excuse me?"

"You said _we're_ here for the match. Who is _we_?"

"Oh," Sherlock's features cleared in understanding. "My assistant. John." He stepped around the trunk of the tree they were standing by and pointed across the viewing area. "He's just there. The one in that cosy little green jumper."

Spencer's eyes followed Sherlock's gesture and came to rest on John and Lestrade. John's legs were stretched out under the table, his cane leaning against his chair. He and Lestrade were apparently involved in a conversation, their heads tilted toward each other, both with similar expressions of dry amusement. John threw his head back and laughed at some remark of Lestrade's. Spencer's full upper lip curled. "Do you know who that is he's sitting with?" he asked carefully.

Sherlock shrugged indifference. "Some friend. I don't know. He likes to be _social_." He sniffed the last word disdainfully. "Which is really quite _irritating_ when I'm in dire need of another drink. I shall have a word."

Spencer's eyes slid away from John and Lestrade and then for the first time since Sherlock had commandeered him, toward Clare Golynski. His gaze came to rest on Sherlock's face and his smile this time was hungry. "You do that. You have to be firm with some people." His hand shot up and locked around the back of Sherlock's neck. He pushed forward and his mouth was on Sherlock's, velvety lips and sharp teeth and a swipe of wet tongue and then he bit—_bit_ Sherlock's lip.

Sherlock's head jerked back and his hands scrabbled against the bark of the tree behind him. Sherlock Holmes would not stand for this, but Gabriel… Gabriel March would not know how to react. _Gabriel_ was caught off guard, not him.

"Otherwise, they think they can get away with absolute _murder_," Spencer whispered against Sherlock's cheek. He stepped away as abruptly as he had lunged forward. His eyes were dancing with glee and he licked a tiny smear of blood into his mouth. "And now I really must run. Until tomorrow, Gabriel. My _delicious_ angel."

Sherlock leant back against the tree and touched his bleeding lip gingerly, fighting down a surge of revulsion. Gabriel's hands were shaking, and he took deep breaths until they calmed. He did not look toward John again when he stepped away from the cover of the tent and blended into the crowd.

* * *

"—and then he took the torch out of his pants," Lestrade snickered.

John laughed. "He didn't!"

"Well, good thing for us he'd forgotten to switch it off, or—she's leaving!" Lestrade bolted upright onto the edge of his chair.

"What?" John's head swivelled back to Clare Golynski, who was standing and hastily gathering her things. She'd spoken to no one. No one had come near her. Perhaps Sherlock had signalled her somehow? "Why would she be leaving? She hasn't made the exchange—we'd have seen."

"I don't know," Lestrade said, flustered, patting at his coat. He nodded sharply to another man—another officer, apparently—so inconspicuously dressed and positioned than John hadn't noticed him. "Maybe they changed the location? I don't know. Shit, we've got to go after her. Just in case."

John grabbed his cane and pushed his chair back, standing along with Lestrade. "Yeah, of course. I'll tell Sherlock. When I find him." He scanned the crowd for Sherlock's grey suit, lush dark hair, but saw only strangers. "If I find him," he said wryly. He had his phone, of course, but he wouldn't want to interrupt Sherlock if he was busy with…whatever he was doing.

As Lestrade and his man moved away to shadow Clare Golynski, John made his way through the groups of gaily chatting spectators, trying not to knock into anyone. As Sherlock had observed, hardly anyone was watching the match. The announcer was interspersing his commentary on the match with appeals for generous donations for the cause. Conversation groups banded and disbanded constantly amongst the crowd. There was a great deal of cheek-kissing, gales of laughter, clinking of champagne glasses. John tried to peer over the heads of taller men and posh, floppy hats of the women to no avail.

Having made his way across the viewing area with no sign of Sherlock, he pulled his mobile from his pocket to send a text.

A hand rested on his sleeve, and he looked up at a tall, fit, golden-haired man and blinked.

"John, isn't it?" the man smiled, bright hazel eyes crinkling behind wire-rimmed glasses.

_Spencer_. "Yes. Hello. I don't believe we've met," John said as casually as he could manage.

"Enjoying the match?"

"Yes, um, the…horses are beautiful. Very…athletic."

"They're called _ponies_, love." Philip Spencer's eyes roamed up and down John's body, a lazy, personal inspection. A smile played around his lips as he met John's eyes again. "So you're the flavour of the month."

"I…excuse me?" John pulled away from the man's touch on his arm.

"You're quite plain, aren't you?" Spencer's eyes drifted to his cane. "And a bit defective, I see, but there must be _some_ fun to be had off you. You've been keeping our Gabriel _entertained_ recently, have you not?"

John's back teeth clicked together as he clamped his jaw, but he pressed out a sardonic smile. "I'm Mr March's associate, if that's what you're asking."

Spencer's eyes sparkled. "His right hand man?"

John lifted his chin. Spencer knew him as Gabriel's assistant. He couldn't actually know about John's other arrangement with Gabriel…Sherlock…could he? John ignored the innuendo, answering blandly, "Until his injury is healed, yes, I suppose so."

"Then you'll be available again soon. Good. Perhaps I could engage that hand when Gabriel is finished with it."

"What do you want?" John clipped out, turning to face Spencer directly.

"No more flirting? Oh, dear, have I upset you? So easily? You won't last long with my Gabriel, I fear. But then I suppose you knew that."

_He's trying to rattle you. Don't let him. _"What do you want?" John repeated. "Last chance."

"I just wanted to meet you," Spencer pouted. "We have so much in common."

"I doubt that."

"Really?" Spencer laughed. "We both have _business_ relationships with Gabriel, do we not?"

John kept up his stony stare, but Spencer's unctuous, suggestive tone was starting to turn his stomach.

Spencer's smile broadened. "And if we indulge in a little suck or fuck now and then, that needn't get in the way of the business. Just greasing the wheels, yes? He's good at that, our Gabriel, isn't he? _Greasing_."

_He's lying._ John's face drew tighter. He felt himself flush, and then flush more deeply as he grew angry with himself for reacting. _He's lying._

"And his mouth is a _miracle_, isn't it? But…oh, dear. Oh, dear, you didn't think you were the only one, did you?" Spencer laughed softly, tilting his head with a pitying look. "Did he make you feel…special? He's good at that, too."

_He did. God, he did._

John leaned forward into Spencer's space, to show he was not intimidated by a few empty words about a man whose real name Spencer didn't even _know_.

A man who called Spencer _Philip_. _Mixing business with pleasure? Anything to win. All a game._

"What are you playing at, Spencer?"

"Oh, you _do_ know me!" he exclaimed with delight. "I think I see a little spark in you, after all, now that I look closely. Gabriel probably thinks you're easily managed."

_So do you, you prick. _John widened his stance. He smiled his growing rage into Spencer's smug face. "Whatever game it is, I'm not playing. And neither is Gabriel."

Spencer laughed. "Do you know him at all?"

"I know this deal is important to him," John said steadily. "That's all I care about. That's my job—to see that he's successful. What you…get up to outside that is no concern of mine."

Spencer's eyes narrowed, raking John from head to toe once again. "Good," he praised, silken-voiced. "Good boy. Well done. I almost believe you." Spencer lifted a hand to brush his fingers through the hair over John's ear. The touch was so reminiscent of Sherlock's that John shuddered involuntarily. "You might want to let go of that phone before you crush it. Keeping you waiting, is he? Maybe you can run back to your _other_ friend."

"Believe what you like. Just make your deal and I'll be on my way." John took another step toward Spencer and widened his smile. "And if you ever touch me again, Spencer, I _will_ break your hand. That's a promise."

"Ah, you like it rough, too. Maybe you two are a better match than I thought." Spencer caught his lower lip between his teeth and winked at John, but his eyes were hard. "One more thing, before I go. Give him a message, would you? Tell him I don't _believe_ in _coincidences_."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Just tell him," Spencer barked, his leer transforming abruptly into a snarl. He turned and strode away.

John sagged into his cane, finally letting his breath out. He looked down at his hands. His fingers were white around both the cane's handle and around his mobile, just as Spencer had noted. The mobile. His line to Sherlock. _Do you know him at all?_ He stared at the mobile for a long time before shoving it back into his pocket. He wheeled and headed toward the exit gate as fast as he could walk.

_Sod this_.


End file.
